


All This Derision

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dreams, Multi, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working as a museum curator in Kansas and living with his boyfriend of several years, Castiel leads a fairly unremarkable life. Or at least, he did until the dreams started: a dark forest, things lurking behind the trees, the constant sense of being hunted… they invade his mind, wearing on him until he's certain that they aren't normal dreams. But the truth of the matter is something that he's entirely unprepared for, and what he finds out will completely and permanently alter the world he thought he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This Derision

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Dean_Castiel Big Bang. Masterpost, including a link to some truly excellent art, can be found at http://lies-unfurl.livejournal.com/21456.html

_When they next wake, all this derision  
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision..._  
  
William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

  
*  
  
 _The air around him smelled of dead, rotting things. It was humid and cloying, clinging to every inch of his exposed skin— which, really, was most of it. He had been running for a long time, and the clothes that had at first provided the thinnest shield from the outside air were ripped to the point where they wouldn't even be useful as rags. Sweat had long since soaked through them, anyway, and parts of them were stained with blood that might or might not have been his own._

_Trees stretched as far as he could see. Some were too wide for him to wrap his arms around; others were like skeletal limbs reaching up from the ground that wavered dangerously in the occasional breezes. But all of them were tall, all looming above his head. If there was a moon in the black sky, they were blocking it._

_There was no one by his side, and that wasn't right. There had been someone before; he was sure of it. But they had left? Was that right; had they found a way out? But if that was so, why was he still here?_

_And where was here? And who was_ he _?_

_"Little angel's all by himself now, isn't he?"_

Castiel's eyes opened to a dimly lit room. _His_ room, with the beige walls that Dean had painted last spring, and the hardwood floors that had taken them a number of long, sweaty hours to put in. His bedroom, in his house that he had fixed up with his longtime boyfriend. They were in Lawrence, Kansas, and they had been for over a month; Castiel had been travelling for work, but he was home for the foreseeable future. They certainly hadn't been in any forests recently.

He lifted his hand and rubbed at his eyes. When he closed them, an inverted image of the nightmare flashed back up, like a photographic negative: endless gray trees against a milky white sky. It recalled the scent of decaying leaves and overflowing sewers, and even though this room didn't smell like anything (except maybe the Old Spice that he and Dean shared) it made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The sheer terror that he had felt in the nightmare was slipping away, though, and at least he hadn't had any delusions about it being real. As things went, this was a milder nightmare than most.

So why, Castiel wondered, was there still a low, sick feeling of dread deep in his gut?

Next to him, Dean made a low garbling sound that could have been anything from his name to a declaration of love to the diner across town. Castiel rolled over and pressed his head against Dean's bare shoulder, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of his skin. Later in the day he would be sweaty and greasy, even though it was unseasonably cool for early September in Kansas and the temperatures weren't supposed to exceed 50 degrees. But Dean hadn't just come home from his garage; he had been sleeping for several hours, and had taken a shower shortly before that. Right now, he was entirely free of dirt. About as far removed from some camping trip gone wrong as you could get.

Castiel felt Dean twitch slightly beneath him, and glanced up in time to see his eyes blinking bleary open. Dean yawned and started to sit up, then paused halfway through when he realized that Castiel was lying on him. "Cas? Wha' time is it?"

He forced himself off Dean's shoulder (which, really, wasn't the best pillow anyway) and, propping himself up on one elbow, glanced over at the glowing blue digits displayed on his alarm clock. "3:27. You've got a couple of hours left."

"Hmm." Dean flopped back down and closed his eyes. Castiel followed his lead, lowering himself back onto the mattress and wriggling deeper under the sheets. "What're you doing awake? You usually sleep like the dead."

"I had a nightmare. I think." Castiel frowned, staring up at the shadows on their ceiling. "A dream, anyway."

"Bad dreams? You?" Dean opened his eyes and rolled over. He lay his hand down in the center of Castiel's chest, the closest he'd ever really get to a comforting gesture. Dean wasn't the touchy-feely type with anyone, except maybe his brother (and even that Castiel was just theorizing about; he'd never seen Sam need that much comfort from his brother). "What, did a big, bad manuscript from the fifteenth century trick you into thinking it was from the twelfth?"

Castiel allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing so terrifying. Just a standard nightmare. Trees. Dark places. The works."

"You sure?" Dean leaned in and pressed a quick kiss against his jaw. "Cause if those old papyrus scripts are giving you any trouble, me and my dirty hands will be all over them, messing them up—"

"You wouldn't dare." Castiel reached up and gently squeezed Dean's wrist, the one that was splayed in a comforting weight across his chest. "Go back to sleep, Dean. You've got work to do tomorrow."

"I've got work to do every day." He kissed Castiel again, this time on the lips. "And I _own_ the place; it's not like anyone's going to notice if I come in late…"

"You're the one with the master set of keys. They would notice. And I have to be at work too, Dean." He gently dislodged Dean's arm and rolled over so that his face was pressed against the back of Dean's neck. "I apologize for waking you up. Now go back to sleep."

"You're no fun," Dean grumbled, but Castiel knew that he was smiling. "Good night, Cas. See you in the morning."

He kissed the base of Dean's neck. "Good night, Dean."

It didn't take long for Castiel to fall back to sleep, not with Dean in his arms, softly snoring away. This time, his dreams were quiet and peaceful, and by the time that his alarm clock beeped at 5:30 AM, memories of his waking earlier in the morning were as distant and fuzzy as the nightmare itself.

*

Dean stumbled downstairs twenty minutes after Castiel had gotten dressed. He blinked as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, wearing nothing but the boxers that he'd gone to bed in. "Coffee?"

"Almost done." Its scent was filling the kitchen now as Castiel stood over the frying pan, intently watching as his bubbling egg whites come together into an omelet. He sprinkled in a handful of green peppers and asked, "Do you want anything to eat?"

"Is that made with that liquid crap you like, or genuine, cholesterol-filled chicken poop?"

"Mine is made with egg whites, but I'll make you one with proper eggs, if you'd like." He glanced at the clock on the stove. "I don't need to be out right away."

"Cas, you're fantastic." Dean walked into the kitchen, still with the vaguely dazed steps of someone who's just emerged from a long stretch of sleeping, and paused near the stove. "I mean, I haven't brushed my teeth yet or anything—"

Castiel leaned over and kissed him, hushing any comments that he might have made with regards to his morning breath. He had been with Dean for the past five years, since they had met at the museum where Castiel still worked. He'd been forced to take over the tours for the day when Inias had suddenly fallen ill. Dean had been twenty-five, with a brother who'd just come down from California from college, and who wanted to do something other than hanging around a house that was absolutely soaked with memories of a dead father who hadn't given his kids the happiest childhood.

Dean had caught his eye halfway through the opening spiel about how the Topeka Museum of Human History was opened in 1985. He had smirked and lifted his eyebrow up, a very, _very_ bold move considering that they were both men, and they were in the home city of the Westboro Baptist Church. Castiel had stumbled in his speech, and then staunchly avoided looking at Dean for the rest of the tour.

Which, of course, hadn't stopped Dean from shaking his hand afterwards and telling him how much he'd enjoyed the tour. It hadn't stopped him from telling Castiel that he'd love to learn more about the museum, and about Castiel's particular area of study, if he had the time?

Later, Dean had admitted that his actions had been bold even for him, that he usually wouldn't have been so forthcoming. But he had been, and Castiel had been curious enough to go along, and now they were living in a house that they had renovated together. Castiel was far past being disgusted by the taste of Dean's breath in the morning.

They broke apart. Dean grinned and Castiel returned the gesture, unable _not_ to. Dean was one of those people who, when they smiled at you, forced you to smile back. "You gonna be home early tonight?"

"I hope so." It was a Friday, and he was usually able to get out early on Fridays. "But you promised Sam that you'd Skype with him, remember?"

"Right." Dean lit up for a moment at the idea of seeing his brother again, and then his expression waned. "I have no idea what the fuck a 'Skype' is."

Castiel smiled and patted Dean's shoulder. For someone who spent his life working with cars, something that Castiel considered to be infinitely more complicated than operating the internet, Dean was hopeless with technology. "We'll figure it out."

"I hope so. Sammy'll be pissed if we miss out on this. Hey, is that your omelet burning?"

He jumped away from Dean and swore, automatically turning down the gas. "It's not burnt. Just well done."

Dean laughed and kissed his cheek. "On second thought, maybe I'll just make my _own_ breakfast."

*

Naturally, that didn't pan out. Castiel made Dean his bacon-and-cheese omelet, and then sat with him discussing the sort of mundane things that couples talked about. He left the house fifteen minutes later than he'd wanted to, quietly cursing how being around Dean made him lose all track of time.

It turned out to be a godsend. There had been an accident earlier, and traffic was just clearing up as Castiel hit the main roads. He ended up at the museum at the same time as he would have if he'd left at the usual time.

The Topeka Museum of Human History was a medium-sized campus devoted to the achievements of mankind. It lacked the finesse or prestige of a place that one might find in Boston or New York, but Castiel was rather fond of it. It was a warm sort of place, the type that a person could return to again and again from their youth to their retirement, and always find something new and welcoming. It wasn't what one could exactly call "modern," with its old-fashion heating system that was liable to break down in the dead of winter, and its flickering lights that kept the maintenance crew on their toes, but it had heart. It was put-together and run by an efficient staff that was (for the most part; there certainly were exceptions) very good at cooperating. Altogether, Castiel was rather fond of working there.

Castiel nodded at Virgil, the current security guard standing at attention near the admission desk, and briskly walked to the staircase to get to his office. It was located on the ground floor, tucked neatly out of the way of the steady streams of visitors. That suited Castiel just fine: he wasn't particularly interested in having lost museumgoers pop into his office every hour of the day to ask him where the restrooms were. And it was quiet. He liked that.

Once he was among the familiar stacks of papers, books, and artifacts, he hung up his suit jacket and sat down at his desk, firing up his computer. He was working on a new exhibit, one set to open in two weeks, and there was an article that he needed to write for the _Capital_ to get the public excited about _Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore_.

He spent his morning meticulously typing it out. It was a good exhibit, and, quite frankly, he was proud of it. He had majored in Theology, and he was most comfortable when he was building displays relating to his own area of study. But Zachariah, the museum director, had wanted something special for Halloween, and Castiel and the rest of the behind-the-scenes crew had obliged him.

It was noon before he was satisfied with the write-up for the newspaper. He knew that it was probably pointless to labor so long over something so small, especially when the paper's editors would alter it as much as they saw fit, but it was good. Castiel could say that it was, and it wouldn't be lying.

"Castiel?"

He hit 'send' and then sat up and stretched, wincing as his back cracked. "Inias! Hello. Come in."

Inias looked mildly amused as Castiel stood up, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out. Inias' job rarely involved sitting around isolated in an office for long periods of time: he was an educator, and spent his time making the museum more accessible to the public. He was good at it, too, far better than Castiel was. The one time he'd covered for Inias, he had ended up meeting his partner of the past several years, hardly the most professional of actions. "Are we still on for lunch?"

"That's what I came down here to ask you about. You didn't emerge when you usually do. Are you too busy?" Castiel and Inias had known each other for some time. They had started working together at the museum at approximately the same time, and had actually been roommates before Castiel and Dean had moved in together. Inias was a native to Kansas, had gone to school in Lawrence before going on to work in Topeka. He had been a comforting presence when Castiel had left the rich, left-wing East Coast town in which he'd grown up for Kansas, a state of good people whose political ideals typically didn't align with his. He had never judged Castiel for his relationships, and for that, Castiel was infinitely grateful.

It had been tradition for the two of them to go out to lunch on Fridays for as long as Castiel could remember. They rarely broke from it. "I'm not too busy to go out. Come on." He stood up, automatically stretching again, and walked the two steps that it took to get from his desk to where Inias was hovering in the doorway. "Should we try for a table at Al's?"

"Of course." Inias waited patiently for Castiel to pull on his jacket, and then they left the museum for the streets of Topeka.

They could have easily driven to the diner, but it was only about ten minutes away if they were walking briskly, and with the weather as pleasant as it was, it seemed a waste to get one of their cars. And, truth be told, Castiel preferred walking — the sun on his face was a nice contrast to the fluorescent light that buzzed above his desk, and the air had an edge of crispness not found in his basement office. He spent far too much of his time indoors.

He and Inias walked along in a companionable silence. There was a mutual understanding between them that neither of them had any talent for small talk, and so they never forced it. It was, Castiel thought, one of the main reasons that their friendship had lasted so long.

Al's was an easy-to-miss place tucked between a dry cleaner's and a store selling sporting equipment. The windows looked onto a poorly-lit setup of dark walls with historical photos of the city and booths that seemed tucked against the walls with no particular spacing. Inside, the air was heavy and smoky, and smelled like fryer grease and slightly-charred meat. It was one of Castiel's favorite places.

The lunchtime rush hadn't quite hit yet, and so they were able to take a booth in the corner of the diner. A waitress with tired eyes brought them their menus, but they didn't need them. They came here too often for that.

Once their orders were in and two ice-filled cups were set before them, Inias leaned back and regarded Castiel curiously. "How _is_ that new exhibit going?"

"Very well, thank you for asking." It had been in progress for a number of months, and it had gotten almost tedious, writing to private collectors and asking them to allow their items relating to the unique folklore of America to be put on display. Occult items attracted followers of the… eccentric sort, and Castiel had spent more hours than he could count over the summer flying out to meet with collectors and examine their acquisitions. And then due to budget cuts, the museum hadn't been able to afford a permanent designer, and Castiel had been forced to figure out the arrangements of the displays almost entirely by himself. It hadn't been the most enjoyable experience of his life.

But the result — the result was _good_ ; he was very willing to say that. Even though his focus was usually on religion in the States, and displays relating to that, he thought that he had pulled it together quite well. It was an interesting topic, and he thought that it would draw quite a crowd to the museum.

Inias nodded as Castiel related this to him, looking genuinely excited. That was another thing that Castiel valued about their friendship — there was no insincerity about it, no faking for the sake of conversation. Inias was dedicated to the museum; he had been going there since he was a child, and working as a tour guide and educator was essentially his dream. Castiel could see him replacing Zachariah as director in the future.

"And when is it set to open?"

"Two weeks to the day," Castiel replied. "The twentieth of September."

"And you're ready for it?"

"I think so." He pulled a face. It was always nerve-wracking, opening up an entirely new exhibit, especially one that he'd put as much effort into as this. "There are a few final details to go over, but the bulk of the work is done. It's mostly just promotion."

"I'm sure that it's going to turn out wonderfully, Castiel."

Before he could thank Inias for that show of loyalty, the waitress returned to their table. "Bacon cheeseburger and fries?"

Castiel reached out and took the checkered red basket from her hands. His stomach growled, and he was reminded how hungry he was: his burnt omelet hadn't been particularly appetizing, and he had ended up throwing most of it out. "Thank you."

The waitress turned to Inias, ignoring Castiel completely. "All-American Classic basket?"

"That's mine. Thank you." She left, and they began eating. The place gradually filled, mostly with workers from the small shops around them. There weren't many tourists about.

It was pleasant, just sitting there with a friend and eating a burger that, quite frankly, was one of the best that Castiel had ever had — tender, juicy meat with grease that ran down his chin every time he sank his teeth into it; fluffy bread; perfectly melted cheese that pulled away from the burger in long strings with every bite. It was good, it really was, and not just the food. Castiel's life, for all that he was settled in his career and for all that he was in a very, _very_ steady relationship —hadn't grown stale. He greatly enjoyed what he did. He loved Dean, would do anything in the world for him. And he appreciated small moments like these, being able to converse with a friend in a place that they both liked.

He was _happy_ , and it was good. It really, really was.

Castiel was staring out the window onto the moderately busy Kansas street as he contemplated this. It had been cloudy most of the day; brisk and cool, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. He had been out of the state for much of the summer, accumulating items for the new exhibit, but every day that he had spent Lawrence had been stiflingly, miserably hot. The coolness wasn't entirely seasonable, but he hadn't heard anyone complaining about it.

The sun came out as he was looking outside. It hit some glass surface at exactly the right angle, and for a moment the world outside of Al's turned into a flare of sunlight. Castiel automatically lifted his hand up to shield his eyes from the brightness of the street, and—

_The doorway made a crackling sound not unlike dry wood being eaten away by flames. This wasn't fire, though: this was pure energy, a gateway of impossibly bright light that led to a different, better world. It turned the everlasting nighttime of the place they were in into noontime on a sunny summer's day. It hurt his eyes if he looked at it too long._

_It could only sustain two passing-throughs. One had already been used up, taken by the monster who had been their ally. That meant that only one of them could go through — himself, or the man who stood at his side._

_"You take it." His words were almost lost in the snapping sound emanating from the passageway. "I can survive for longer here."_

_The man next to him shifted uncomfortably. He seemed to think for a moment before he said, in a voice that didn't quite cover up his hesitation, "No, that's not fair. You're the only reason that I made it this long. You go through, Cas."_

_Frustration coursed through him at the human's damning self-sacrificing nature. "You're forgetting that I'm the only reason that you're here in the first place. Go."_

_The other man opened his mouth, then shut it, looking away. It was hard to argue with such undeniable facts, and he didn't give him the chance. "I have nothing left on the other side of that doorway. The majority of my brothers are dead; Heaven is a shell of its former self — and were it as great as it once was, it would certainly reject one who has acted in as many terrible ways as I. I would be forced to wander the Earth without purpose or meaning. My existence would be pointless._

_"But you — you have family waiting there._ Sam _is there for you, and you need him far more than you need me. You will always have a purpose on Earth, so long as you have him to protect. I… I could hunt, clean up my mistakes, but even that means little compared to seeing that you get back to Sam. And you have to understand, that's without considering what this place would do to you. It would change you into something that I don't want you to become; you'd try to avoid it all you can, but in the end, you_ would _change into a monster no different from any of the others here._ You _would. I'm angel enough to keep my being intact."_

 _His companion closed his eyes. His shoulder shook minutely, and it occurred to him that he was suppressing tears. That surprised him_ _— he should be_ happy _. He would be back with his brother, and knew that was all that the other man really wanted. "Don't make me do this."_

_"I won't push you." Even as the words came out of his mouth, though, he knew that he would if he had to. His duty was to protect this man as best he could, and he'd never be safe as long as he was stuck in this forest of the dead. "But it's what you need to do. I think you know that."_

_He kept staring down into the bright doorway, even as his friend turned away, like he couldn't bear to face his future. "What are you going to do here? Eternity's a fucking long time, Cas."_

_"You forget that I'm not like you. My kind was built to handle eternity."_

_"How can you say that? It's not like you've lived through it." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. It was a twisted version of what laughter was supposed to be like, and so it fit right in with this place. "I won't leave you here, you know that? I'll find a way when I'm back on Earth."_

_That meant that he was going to go. Relief washed through him at his companion's reluctant acceptance. "I don't expect you to."_

_"You should." Now he's facing the doorway again, staring down into its pure white light. "No goodbyes, 'cause this isn't the end."_

_"Of course not." But, as he watched the only real friend that he had in this place step into the light, he knew that was a lie. This was where one story ended, and another one — one far less pleasant — began._

_The light from the doorway winked out, and darkness settled in once more. It was okay. He was used to it._

"Castiel? Castiel, are you all right?"

Castiel blinked. There were no trees surrounding him, no scent of rotting flesh. There wasn't a portal leading to another world, either — just a window that looked onto a mildly busy Kansas street. "Inias. I'm sorry; I seem to have… blacked out for a moment."

"Do you need a doctor?" Inias was frowning, looking at him with a concern that was touching, really. "I could call one…"

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, though. I just haven't been sleeping as well as I should be." Which he supposed was technically true — there was that nightmare that had woken him before, the one that also took place in a forest at nighttime. But at the same time, he didn’t think that what had happened was related to sleep deprivation. He didn't know where it came from, and it was… disconcerting. "What happened, exactly? On your end?"

"I was talking, you were looking out the window, and you just froze. You didn't blink, you didn't shake or twitch or anything like that. I don't know what it could have been. Are you _certain_ that you're all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine, really." He looked down at the still-steaming burger that he had yet to eat, and realized that whatever hunger he'd had before was gone. "I'll just rest this weekend; I should be fine."

"You should relax," Inias agreed. "You've been working very hard on that exhibit, Castiel — really, most of us didn't know how exactly you'd manage when Zachariah first assigned it to you, but you've gone well beyond everyone's expectations. Give yourself a break."

"I will." He rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired. "In fact, I think I might leave early today."

He wasn't actually thinking that until he said it. Castiel didn't ever leave work before 5:30, and often he stayed later. His work ethic forbade him from acting otherwise.

But today — today, it seemed fitting, for reasons that he couldn't quite figure out. He would do his absolute best to get things done at the museum, but maybe he _would_ go home before the usual hour. It had been a strange day.

*

"Before the usual hour" ended up being at precisely 3:48. Castiel sat at his desk. He read the response to his email, sent out by an incredibly quick editor, and agreed to the changes that she had suggested. He set up several interviews with local papers to promote the _Demons of America_ exhibit. He spoke briefly with Balthazar, the registrar and the second of Castiel's two close friends (the first being Inias) at the museum.

It was 3:46 when he realized that he had been sitting in front of his computer trying to write the speech that he would give at the opening of the exhibition for over ten minutes. He didn't have anything written at all.

Castiel sighed and looked away from the glare of his screen. He rubbed his eyes and breathed deeply, aware that the frustration rising in him would result in nothing productive.

He tried to put himself in the presentation. He tried to picture all of the area's elite standing around and laughing as they sipped their cocktails and appreciated the leftmost corner's display of New England-based memorabilia. He thought about greeting all of them with a smile, and launching into a fascinating discussion about the work that had gone into making the museum.

And then Castiel reached over and powered down his computer and his monitor. He stood up, got his coat, and walked out of his office. The frustration that he had tried to quell had risen instead, flooded and soaked his body to its core. He'd get nothing done like this, and would only succeed in going home and spreading his mood to Dean if he stayed put any longer.

Instead, Castiel slipped out of the museum, not bothering to visit Inias or Balthazar before he left. The roads were practically empty on his way home, and that did improve his mood fractionally; God knew that it was rare enough.

At home, he changed from the suit that he always wore to work (even though he rarely interacted with anyone who cared about his dress) into a pair of sweats. He left a note for Dean on their kitchen table, even though he knew that Dean probably wouldn't be back until after him:

_Dean—_

_Out for a run. My turn to make dinner._

_—Castiel_

Castiel's job kept him indoors for most of the day, and seated as well, and even his lunch breaks weren't long enough to fit in a substantial workout which gave him time to both clean up and eat. So he was forced to exercise either early in the morning (meaning, he would have to pry himself away from Dean) or later in the evening (meaning that he would have to put off having dinner with Dean, which was usually the most enjoyable part of his day). Because of that, he usually ended up keeping his runs under the five mile mark, a far cry from what he used to do when he was in school.

Today was the perfect day for a run, and as he settled into that familiar rhythm, his frustration began to dissipate. It was hard to stay so irritated when the cool air was rushing against his face, and his muscles were straining in the way that signified a good workout. Running like this gave him a feeling that was as close as ever to the flying that he sometimes did in his dreams. It blanked his mind, the wind whipping away whatever concerns weighed him down.

As the sun beat down on him and the smooth landscape, about as far from woodland as you could get, rolled past him, Castiel calmed down. The frustration that had been like thick smog hanging over his mind gradually cleared. It had just been a dream and a hallucination, that was all. He was stressed from all of the work that he had been doing; work that he'd enjoyed, but which _had_ been rather all-consuming through the summer and beyond. Dean had even cancelled their planned trip to California to see his brother, and Castiel knew how much he had been looking forward to that.

Perhaps they needed a vacation themselves, he thought. The museum would need him around to do PR and make sure that everything went smoothly at the exhibit's opening; it was large enough so that they'd want him to be present for at least the following moth. But afterwards, maybe for Thanksgiving, he and Dean could get away.

Castiel made a mental note to bring it up at dinnertime. Dean wanted to meet his brother's girlfriend, he knew, and Sam was always very hospitable. He imagined that Sam would be very open to them going over for Thanksgiving.

After he had been out there for half an hour, though, even thoughts as mundane as those faded from his mind. Castiel faded into nothing but the pound of his footsteps against the pavement, the slap of gravel against his feet. Anything troubling him was left in the dust.

He got home right around 5:00, sweaty and dirty, but feeling better than he had in a long while. He hadn't even realized that he had been feeling out-of-sorts, but he could very clearly feel the difference now. His mind felt ordered; his body, refreshed. If something had been wrong before, it was all right now.

Castiel showered and then promptly set about making supper. Dean came home just as he was finishing boiling the spaghetti.

"Jesus, Cas, that smells _awesome_." Dean leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled vaguely of sweat and motor oil, as he usually did. "You're fucking great, you know that?"

"I've been told." He checked the sauce, doing his best not to smile. "Go clean up. This is going to be ready soon."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at their kitchen table and eating supper together. Today was Castiel's turn to cook (they rotated; Dean, for all that he seemed the embodiment of the disdainful husband who left all the work to his spouse, was actually a very good amateur chef; he said that it came from cooking for himself and Sam most nights when they were growing up). Castiel had made spaghetti in a white sauce and garlic bread, and had set out a plate of fruit for good measure. He knew that he would be the only one who'd touch it, but it was the thought that counted.

"How'd work go?" Dean asked, licking a streak of sauce from the corner of his lips. "Anything new going on with the _Demons_ thing?"

"No, thank goodness. I spent most of my time writing something for the _Capital_." He grimaced. "I actually left early today. Went for a run when I got home."

Dean paused with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his lips, looking concerned. "You feeling okay?"

"I am now." He briefly told Dean about what had happened when he had been out with Inias. "I couldn't concentrate after that."

"That's… kinda disturbing." Dean was frowning in earnest now, leaning forward as though Castiel were displaying physical signs that something was wrong. "It was you in a forest? And someone else?"

"Yes. I'm not sure who it was… it might have been you." It had been too dark in the woods to tell, even with the bright light of the doorway, or whatever it was. And truth be told, Castiel hadn't been looking too closely at his companion, as though he had already known who it was. It hadn't been a lucid dream, or vision, or what-have-you. "The details of it are already getting hazy. It was probably just a one-time thing."

"I hope so." Dean chewed on a slice of garlic bread, looking thoughtful. "Tell me if anything else happens, okay, Cas? I know that you've been under a lot of shit from Zachariah about getting everything done, but that doesn't sound okay."

"Of course I'd tell you." He stabbed at his spaghetti, his hunger gone, for whatever reason. The subject hadn't sat well with his appetite, apparently, and so he did his best to change it. "Sam is still on for Skyping tonight, correct?"

"Yeah, whatever the hell a Skype _is_." Dean frowned and then added, "Okay, I know it's like a webcam thing, but I thought that only strippers and bored teenagers used those."

Castiel rolled his eyes. It was a wonder that he and Dean were together, he thought, not for the first time. "It's easy enough, I think. We'll set up an account when we're done, and you can email Sam to tell him our username. The reason that I asked, though, was because I wanted to know if you'd thought at all about Thanksgiving?"

"Um, we're probably gonna get a turkey and gorge ourselves and then pass out on the couch together?" Dean raised his eyebrows and took a long sip from the cold beer that he favored with supper. "Sounds about right. I mean, the Halloween candy's just hitting shelves now; I haven't really thought about Thanksgiving."

"I was just thinking that maybe we could take that trip to California that we'd talked about? If you think that Sam would want us. It would be nice to see him again, and truth be told, I could use a vacation." He grimaced. "A change of scenery for something other than work."

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and Castiel knew that as much as he might look like he was joking, there was a deadly seriousness underneath it all. "Never thought I'd see the day when _Castiel_ would say he needed a vacation."

"I'm full of surprises." He stood up, his plate mostly full in front of him, and squeezed Dean's shoulder, pressing a light kiss to his brow. It was the most affectionate that he would be outside of the bedroom (unless Dean suggested something kinky to do outside the boundaries of their bed, in which case Castiel was quick to acquiesce). Castiel was not one for romantic gestures. "I'm going to go get the laptop set up. This could take a while."

It did. Castiel's experience with computers was pathetically limited. His main experience was with the ancient model that the museum's budget afforded him; through college, he'd used the machines for word processing only, preferring libraries for research. Most technology more advanced than a microwave eluded him, including the Smartphone that he'd gotten to keep in touch with work while he was on the job. This was, of course, much to Dean's amusement (which really didn't make much sense, considering how Dean scoffed at anything made after 1967).

But Castiel was persistent, if nothing else, and by the time that Dean had loaded up the dishwasher, he had the webcam set up and an account properly in place. Dean sat down next to him on the fat leather couch that they had picked up at a yard sale and frowned. "The hell is that?"

"It's a webcam, Dean. That's what they look like."

"I don't like it." He sat back against the couch, pulling the laptop over so that it was half on Castiel's lap and half on his. "It's unnatural."

"You say that about everything that isn't a car. And a good deal of today's cars, too."

A sudden chime from the laptop interrupted them. Dean jumped and glanced at it. "That Sam?"

"That's Sam," Castiel confirmed, although he wasn't entirely certain himself. He pressed the button to allow them to receive the call.

A moment later, Sam's face swam into view and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. Technology was not his strong point; it was always a bit of a treat when something he tried worked out. "Sam? Sam, can you see us?"

"Clear as day," Sam confirmed, grinning. "How are you, Cas?"

"What, nothing for your own brother?" Dean stuck his head right in front of their webcam. "You not seeing me, Sammy?"

"I was getting to you. How are things down in Kansas? How's work, both of you?"

"Pretty good," Dean replied. "Can't complain about business. And Cas's museum hasn't fallen under or anything. His new exhibit's almost done." There was a hint of pride in Dean's voice, and it made Castiel feel warm inside.

"The one about monsters? Awesome. I wish that I could see it." Sam made a face. They both knew that he loved California, and that he would probably stay there even after he was done with law school, but they also both knew that he loathed the distance between them just as much as Dean and Castiel did. Or, well, Dean. Castiel hated being apart from his boyfriend's younger brother; he was quite fond of Sam's company, but he didn't think that he could quite reach Dean's levels of disdain for the miles between himself and the boy he had helped raise.

"Speaking of that, Cas brought something up at suppertime. What are your Thanksgiving plans?" Dean leaned back on the couch, tossing one arm casually around Cas. The laptop was easily balanced between their knees, and Castiel automatically leaned back.

"Uh, I'm not sure. Do you want me to call Jess and ask?"

"Well, you don't need to phone her…"

"That's not what I meant." Sam's cheeks turned pink and he stood up. "I'll be right back."

He turned around and hurried off. Castiel could tell now that he wasn't in a living room like he and Dean were. Instead, he was in a bedroom, one that looked considerably nicer than any college dorm Castiel had been in. And from the look of it, Sam had been lounging on his bed – a _double_ bed…

Dean frowned. "Is this goin' where I think it is?"

Castiel didn't have time to reply. A moment later, Sam showed up with his hand curled in that of a tall blonde woman. She had an intelligent look about her, with sharp blue eyes and a curious, slightly nervous, expression on her face. Sam sat her down on the bed and cleared his throat. Before Dean could make any comments he would regret (and Castiel knew that he was probably thinking of a few – while he didn't doubt Dean's commitment to Sam, Dean was the king of casual innuendo), he said, "Dean, Cas, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Jessica Moore. We moved in together last week."

"And you didn't tell me?" Dean's eyebrows had shot up, and he took his arm off of Castiel so that he could lean forward, looking incredulous. "Sammy!"

"I didn't want you to be worried," Sam said quickly. "Seriously, Dean. I know that Cas has been working so hard on the exhibit, and you've been working too, and you had to cancel your trip here, so I thought you'd probably be stressed. And I didn't want to add to that. Anyway, it wasn't that big a change. I was sick of the dorms, and I've been working a paid internship with this firm—"

"What?" Dean crossed his arms, glaring. It would have been comical if Castiel didn't know how genuinely hurt he was at being kept out of the loop.

"Yeah. It's not a big deal. But with our combined paychecks, we could finally afford it." Sam smiled tentatively, stroking Jessica's fingers with his thumb.

"Sam's told me a lot about you," Jess said quickly, like she could sense the tension between the two brothers. "About both of you, I mean. I'd love to meet you."

"The feeling is mutual," Castiel replied, giving Dean another moment to stew in his anger. "Actually, that's what Dean was talking about a moment ago. We've only just discussed it today, and I don't want to impose on you at all, but…"

"You want to come to Thanksgiving?" Sam finished. He gave Cas a wide smile, looking relieved. "I would _love_ that. I mean, seriously, that sounds _awesome_. Jess can bake up a pretty mean plate of rolls, and I'm sure that we could figure out how to make a turkey together. And there's definitely enough room. We've got a guest room that's kind small; it wasn't originally supposed to be a bedroom, but we managed to fit a mattress in so that our friends could crash when they needed to. We can fix it up all nice for you."

He was rambling a bit, but Castiel let him go on, chiming in only when his input about Sam's plans was needed. It was a bit endearing, honestly. He reached out and took Dean's hand, thumb brushing over it in an imitation of the gesture between Sam and Jessica.

Dean finally got to talking somewhere around when Sam was bringing up the cost of plane tickets, and how maybe he and Jess could return the favor and come see them at Christmas, if her parents were okay with that? The conversation lasted for almost an hour, and while it couldn't be described as relaxed, the tension did bleed out of it some.

By the time that Sam and Jess had to go (dinner reservations), they had solid Thanksgiving plans made, and Cas had seen enough of Jessica to know that he liked her. She was getting her master's in childhood psychology, and had a bachelor's in psychology with a minor in education. Eventually she wanted to work as a counselor for children that had gone through traumatic events, but at the moment she was a classroom aid in a kindergarten class. Castiel, never one for children himself, was suitably impressed.

Dean shut the laptop after they had left, and took a deep breath. Castiel waited patiently by his side.

"I can't believe the little bitch didn't tell me that he had moved in with his girlfriend!" Dean slammed the computer down on the coffee table with more force than was strictly safe. "What the hell!"

Castiel reached up and gently started rubbing Dean's shoulder. "It doesn't mean he doesn't care about you, Dean, or that you're no longer his family."

"I know that," he growled. "But – how could he just _not_ —" he made a gesture with his hand that did little to stand in for the words he couldn't find. " _How_?"

"He was worried about your wellbeing, and he didn't want to distract you from anything in your life. It's a sign that he cares for you."

Dean flopped back against the couch cushions and let out a noise of frustration that was halfway between a growl and a moan. Castiel kept his hand on Dean's shoulder for a moment longer and then stood up. "How about you put on that football game you were looking forward to, and I get some wine, and we can see where things go? You can't do anything about Sam right now, not until we're over there for Thanksgiving – and besides, you can't deny that he seems happy."

"He's only been with her for, like, five months. What if he's going too quickly?"

"He's an adult, Dean, even if he is and always will be your younger brother." Castiel kissed him again. "Wine?"

"I guess so." Dean sighed.

*

The weekend was, thankfully, uneventful. They slept in both days, and Castiel's dreams were as far from forests as they could get. One was even about flying, and it was the sort of dream that was so pleasant that upon waking, the world seemed considerably duller than it had the night before. (Dean was there, though, and he had woken up only moments after Castiel, and what they had done afterwards had been decidedly _not_ dull. That was very good, considerably better than flying.)

Monday it was back to work, and unlike Friday, he found himself with plenty to do. Two local newspapers were asking for interviews, there was a problem with the design layout (the area on southern mythology was said to focus too much on New Orleans; he had to speak very firmly to Zachariah about how important it was to properly shed light on the oft-misunderstood nature of voodoo), and he had to write his godforsaken opening speech. There were less than two weeks before the public was to be invited to see the exhibit, and Castiel was very aware of how crucial it was that he not mess this up.

He was once again struggling to properly express himself in his opening remarks (there was a reason that he hadn't been an English major; a very, very good reason) when Inias knocked on the door and poked his head into the office. "Castiel?"

"Inias! Hello." He took his fingers away from the worn-out keyboard and stretched, relishing the break. "How are you?"

"Myself? I'm well." Inias stepped into Castiel's room, understanding the unsaid invitation. He was dressed in his usual dark suit, but it looked a bit more rumpled than usual. "I had a presentation at one of the elementary schools this morning. 'How museums make learning fun.'" His lips quirked up. "A bit exhausting, that one."

"I imagine." Castiel didn't work with children. He tried to avoid them as best he could. Which was a bit unfortunate, because Dean was absolutely wonderful with them. "How can I help you? Is there something you need?"

"Oh no, not at all." Inias shook his head. "I just wanted to make sure that you were feeling better. I came to see you on Friday, after we went out to lunch, but you'd already left. I was a bit concerned."

"I'm fine, thank you for asking. I got some sleep; I think that's all that I needed." In truth, he was more awake than he'd been for quite some time, and he'd only had one cup of coffee. He was doing absolutely fantastically, considering that it was a Monday. "I haven't had any more of those… episodes since the first one, so I don't think that it's something to worry about."

Inias nodded. He would have looked relieved, were it not for the worry that creased his brow. "I'm glad to hear that. I still… I think you should go to a doctor, Castiel. At least, if anything else happens."

"I will if I have to." And not a moment before then; he loathed doctors. It was the career path chosen by his eldest brother, an arrogant know-it-all with the empathy of a brick wall. Castiel knew that not all doctors were like that, he really did. But that didn't lessen the negative associations he had with them. "If they repeat. But I think it was just stress, more than anything. With the new exhibit and all."

"I hope so." Inias didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't press the issue. It wouldn't have done any good, and Castiel suspected that he knew that. Inias was intelligent, far better at reading people than he was. Castiel thought that he would have been a good doctor, far better than Michael was. "Well, if everything is all right, I'll let you get back to your work. Have a good afternoon, Castiel."

"Same to you." And then Inias was gone, out the door and back to whatever it was that he had planned for the rest of the day. Castiel sighed and turned back to his computer. He had work to do.

*

The rest of the week, and the week that followed, were busy enough to make Castiel start to loathe the _Demons_ exhibit, and wonder why it was that he had proposed the idea in the first place. It wasn't the first time he'd opened one, of course, but somewhere along the line, he had forgotten how terrible it was immediately before the opening. How absolutely _stressed_ he and his colleagues were — himself more than anyone; it was mainly his project, after all, but also Inias and the other tour guides and educators who had to know enough about the exhibition to lead a group through, and the security guards who needed to prepare themselves for an influx of enthusiastic people, some of whom would doubtlessly want to touch the allegedly cursed objects that collectors had given to Castiel to be displayed.

And then there were the reporters. Castiel _hated_ the reporters. He could write an article about the exhibit just fine; that was mostly giving factual information about the display and explaining why the public should come. He'd already done a lot of that with the advertising team, and he could handle a formal article. But interviews, having to field questions from reporters who knew absolutely nothing about what they were talking about? Who expected him to joke around, fulfill that image of the museum curator who was inept at dealing with the present, and spent all day in the bowels of the museum, digging up ancient treasures that had long since been forgotten? It was terrible. Having to guide reviewers through the exhibit in advance was almost as bad, although the reviewers _were_ mostly professional critics, who asked intelligent questions that he could answer. He didn't mind them as much as the others.

Dean, naturally, was mildly amused by all of this. The night before the opening, after all of the dishes had been washed and Castiel had spent the entire time loading up the dishwasher venting about the terrible reporters who had the nerve to be taken aback by his reserved, decidedly sane nature Dean looked at him and laughed. "Cas, you _are_ a, how did you put it? A kooky museum curator. Your office _is_ in the basement. You _do_ spend all of your time focusing on the past; you're completely out-of-touch with today's pop culture. They're probably not taken aback by your 'reserved nature' so much as they are surprised by how you're exactly what they expect."

Castiel sank into the couch and glared at him. "They're terrible. They expect me to be all… all _jovial_ , all joking with them. I just want them to stop asking me stupid questions." Like whether he was scared to walk around the museum at night; if he thought it was haunted; whether he'd met any vampires during his time building up the exhibit's catalogue. "I wish this was over."

Dean sat down next to him and began to rub his shoulders with his strong, rough hands. Castiel closed his eyes and took several deep breathes. Had Dean not taken over his father's garage, he would have made a _fantastic_ masseuse.

They stayed like that for several minutes, with Castiel letting his breath even out and his body slowly loosen up, releasing the tension that the day had built up. Dean didn't say anything; he just moved his hands around in slow circles, rubbing away some of Castiel's frustration.

When Castiel was all but boneless beneath him, he leaned forward and kissed the base of Castiel's neck for a long moment. Castiel shuddered as he pulled away only enough to speak, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there. "I know, Cas. Man, I wish that it was over too, and we could just go back to you hiding in your office all day, instead of you having to deal with all of this shit. But it's not long now, right? We got that party tomorrow, and then it's open, and you can stop worrying."

"I still have to work on maintaining it," he mumbled, his cheek pressed up against the soft leather of the couch. "And Zachariah wants me aboveground for a few days. Being a face for the public, answering their questions, things like that." He sighed. Obedience to his old, balding boss was important, he knew, but he _loathed_ the man sometimes. He was supposed to be putting things together and dealing with other displays, not standing around talking to tourists and residents alike with a fake smile plastered on his face. "I'll have to work this weekend."

"Yeah, but when you come home…" Dean chuckled. One of his hands traced the line of Castiel's collarbone, trailed up along the center of his neck. Castiel automatically lifted his head up, letting out an embarrassingly high noise. "Trust me, when you get home all of your troubles are gonna go away."

Castiel let himself go lax against Dean. In response, Dean lay back on the couch, pulling Castiel down with him. He wriggled over so that he was lying face to face with Dean, Dean's arms wrapped securely around his waist. "You shouldn't make promises that you can't keep."

Dean reached up and kissed him, slow and unrushed. When he pulled away Castiel saw how flushed his face was, and felt his cock twitch in response. "Trust me on this. By the time I'm done with you, the last thing you're gonna be thinking about is work."

"I believe you." He sat up reluctantly and sighed. "It probably wouldn't benefit me to stay up late."

"Mmm. Probably not." Dean sat up too and stretched his arms high above his head. Castiel noted the sharp outline of his Adam's apple against his throat and resisted the urge to lean over and start necking him. That would hardly be fitting behavior; he was a grown man, not some horny teenager. "But there are some things that we can probably do before you go to bed…"

Castiel glanced at Dean, who was also sitting up now, perched against the arm of the couch. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, all of the impossibly cocky man that Castiel had first fallen for. "C'mon, Cas. What do you say?"

Castiel sighed and stood up. Then he leaned over and pulled Dean up and on to his feet. "I say that I have to get to bed by 10:30, at the very latest… but all the time until then is yours."

Dean grinned and tugged on his hand, leading him in the direction of their bedroom. "Good choice."

*

Castiel came home early the next day, leaving the museum almost immediately after a rushed lunch with Inias, during which Inias had done his absolute best to convince Castiel that everything was going very well with the exhibit, that there wasn't an imbalance between Native legends and the mythology brought over, and that of course the lighting was bright enough.

Unlike the Friday of two weeks ago, Castiel hadn't left early because of some blackout he had in the middle of a busy restaurant. Although he was a bit surprised that he hadn't had another one of those, considering that he felt like he was going mad.

No, he went home early to neaten himself up, and to make himself presentable. That night was the opening of the _Demons_ exhibit, the big kickoff party. It was a notable exhibition, Castiel knew. Something to attract the dark side in people, and given that Hallowe'en was coming up, people were certain to flock to it.

And because it wasn't a design based on something foolish that no one cared about (Castiel was still a bit bitter at the response, or lack thereof, to the display of 15th-century Greek Orthodox idols that he had managed to accumulate), there were going to be bigwig figures at the party. Men with more money on any given day than Dean and Castiel were likely to earn together in a whole year. Men who could donate to the museum, help put supports under its rapidly sinking financial base.

Zachariah had cornered him before he left work and ordered him to be pleasant, presentable, and polite at the opening. In his own words, to suck up to every single person there. And Castiel had politely said that he would try his best, because even though he would probably be among the last to be fired (they could hardly have a museum without a curator, after all) he knew that Zachariah could make his workload far more unpleasant than it already was. And doubtless he'd be willing to do just that.

So Castiel showered, shaved, and brushed his hair until it lay neatly down. He put on his best suit and tied his tie neatly and professionally.

Dean came home when he was standing in their bedroom, critically examining himself in their mirror. He came up behind Castiel and stretched his lips wide, sticking out his tongue and making his eyes bulge.

Castiel smiled wanly. Seeing that he'd managed that, Dean straightened up and kissed him on the cheek. He laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder and grinned at their reflections. "You smell good."

"I'm drenched in conspicuous amounts of aftershave. I feel disgusting."

"You look like sex on legs, Castiel," Dean drawled. "And it's probably a good thing that I'm not going to your rich-ass bastards gathering, because I'd just shove you up against a wall and start _ravishing_ you right there. Okay?"

"I'm going more for 'professional' than I am 'arousing,' but thank you. I do wish you were going." He covered Dean's hand and sighed. It was a 'plus one' event, but they'd mutually agreed that Dean had best stayed home. Castiel made no secret of their relationship at work; if asked, he would certainly say that they had been living together in their present home for over a year, and that they had been seriously involved for several before that. But it was… well, it wasn't something that he brought up casually, save for with his closest friends. Inias knew; he knew most things about Castiel. And Balthazar, the flippant European registrar, had known Castiel's sexuality from the moment he'd met him.

Zachariah, though, was another story. Castiel had no way of guessing how he would react if he knew, and so he had never talked about Dean in front of him (which wasn't very hard, seeing as Zachariah only cared that Castiel could go and collect some artifact at a moment's notice; whether he was leaving someone behind to sleep in an empty bed was entirely irrelevant to him). And even if Zachariah did know? The rich donors that were going to be there, Castiel was well aware that the majority of them were… not of liberal leanings. He knew of most of them, and how strongly they supported the church. Bringing his boyfriend to that crowd would, at best, cause them to take him far less seriously than they otherwise would. At worst, they would refuse to support an establishment that hired one of his leaning.

And so Dean was left alone to watch the Friday night game and order takeout. Castiel felt impossibly guilty about it, even though he knew that Dean was okay with it, that they had made the most reasonable decision that they could.

"Hey." Dean tugged at his tie. "Earth to Castiel? You spacing out on me?"

"What? No." He shook his head, hands automatically going to straighten the tie, although Dean really hadn't messed it up. "I was just… thinking."

"'bout how I'm not going? Don't sweat it." Dean reached in and pecked him on the lips. He preferred kissing to talking. To tell the truth, so did Castiel. "You know I don't want to, anyway. I mean, if I could I'd go and offer you moral support… let you picture me in my underwear when you're giving that speech of yours… but it's gonna be crowded with a bunch of rich farts. I wouldn't fit in."

That was true. Dean _was_ rather disdainful of the wealthy. Not that Castiel could blame him, given the decidedly working-class background that he had come from. "I appreciate the support that you've given me over the past months, Dean. I've been travelling, I know, and I've been busy, I've been stressed… you're more than I deserve."

"Hey." Dean took his hand off of Castiel's shoulder and stepped back, looking serious. "Don't you go all sentimental on me, Cas."

"I wasn't going sentimental, I was just—"

Dean cut him off by leaning in and _kissing_ him—not a light brush of lips against cheek, nor a two-second instant of lip-touching, but a full-on, hand-cupping-head, lips open kiss. He sucked at Castiel's bottom lip, his tongue tracing over Castiel's teeth. Castiel grabbed his shoulder to steady himself, moaning into Dean's mouth. Dean responded by pushing him against the mirror, and then straightening up. His eyes were completely blown. "How soon do you have to leave?"

"I was going to go in about ten minutes — Dean, I'm already dressed—"

Dean was already on his knees, fingers fumbling around at Castiel's crotch. "Come on, Cas. Don't you trust me not to mess you up?"

"Yes, but—"

"Shh." Dean looked up at him, fingers stilling for a moment, and Castiel couldn't help the low growl that escaped him at the loss of friction. "You're stressed to fucking hell, man. Let me take some of the edge off of you, okay?"

Castiel licked his lips, reminding himself that he was a human being, and he had the ability to speak. "I don't think I'll have time to return the favor."

Dean snorted. "Trust me, I'm not going to need much. Pretty sure my hand'll do." He looked at Cas, his lips already parted. "Please."

Castiel groaned and leaned against the mirror. The glass felt cool against his neck. "Yes. Please."

Dean didn't respond, just went back to what he had been doing before. He worked open the fly of Castiel's suit pants and somehow managed to control himself enough to pull down the zipper, and then lower Castiel's pants until they were halfway down his thighs, reducing the chance of any… unfortunate substances splashing out onto them.

A moan slipped past Castiel's lips as Dean mouthed the bulge in his boxers. The friction of the cloth against his dick was driving him mad, making him desperate for more. It seemed to take far too long for Dean to finally shift the underwear down, just far enough so that he could get to Castiel.

Dean's tongue swirled once around the head of Castiel's dick before he widened his lips and swallowed him down without hesitation. The tight heat made him cry out, run his fingers through Dean's hair even though it was far too short for him to take hold of. No matter how many times they had done this before (and it was a substantial amount, no questioning that) Dean's tongue never failed to reduce Castiel to a gasping, incoherent mess. He cried out as Dean worked on him, rough strokes running up and down the length of his cock. He resisted the urge to thrust his hips forward, even though he knew that Dean could take it — that Dean liked it, even. It still made him feel guilty, somehow; like that would be _fucking_ , not having sex.

His eyes met Dean's, dark green and blown with lust. Holding his gaze, and still sucking at his dick, Dean reached up and ran his fingers lightly over Castiel's testicles.

That did it. Castiel gasped and thrust into Dean's mouth, no longer entirely in control of his body's actions. With Dean's eyes still locked with his he managed to get out, "Dean — Dean, I'm going to—"

He came with a moan, finally closing his eyes as his orgasm rolled over him. His fingers tightened, not quite becoming a fist over the short bristles of Dean's hair.

When logic finally took over from the overload of pleasure, Castiel found himself sagging against the mirror, the glass now sticky with his sweat. He thought, absurdly considering the moment, that it would be smudged when he stood up, and that he would have to wash it off over the weekend.

Dean was still on his knees, face level with Castiel's crotch. He looked rather pleased with himself, only a few drops of Castiel's come splattering his face. Castiel glanced down at the dark pants he was wearing and noted that nothing had spilled on them. "Dean. Are you… are you sure that you don't want any help with… that?"

Dean rose in a swift motion, ignoring the obvious tent in his jeans. He leaned forward and kissed Castiel, and the taste of himself inside Dean's mouth was almost enough to ready Castiel for another round.

When they broke apart, Dean licked his swollen lips and said, "Cas, you gotta get going. Don't worry about me… I've got plenty to think about."

He grinned, and Castiel looked away, almost blushing in spite of himself. He bent down to straighten up his pants. "Thank you."

"Don't worry about it." Dean reached in and kissed him again, but this time it was on his cheek, and it wasn't nearly as arousing. "At least you're relaxed and ready to go, right?"

*

Two hours later, Castiel was standing in front of a podium, and he was decidedly _not_ relaxed. Sweat stuck his shirt collar to his neck, and he thought that his tie was askew. And his pants were most definitely not the neatly-pressed garments adorning the legs of the wealthy men who were staring at him expectantly. They would have been, once upon a time, would still be, if it hadn't been for Dean, and his ability to turn any time into a great time for a blow job.

The opening party was going wonderfully, so far. The museum's cafeteria had somehow become a classy place since Castiel had left; white tablecloths covering tables that were perpetually sticky, and thick napkins that definitely weren't the cafeteria's usual, fall-apart-at-first-touch brand, folded at every place. Golden lights were strung around the place, replacing the normal, irritatingly-buzzing lighting into something that could only be described as 'ambient.' It was a similar, if slightly less classy, version of the dinner parties that Castiel had grown up attending. His parents had been extremely wealthy acquiring money through the stock market with what some called 'luck,' and his father called 'God's will.'

But of course, he wasn't back there now. Now, he was standing in front of Kansas' finest, several pages of paper laying before him. Every eye in the godforsaken room was trained on him, and Castiel _loathed_ it. He was supposed to be dealing with artifacts and oddities stored in the museum, in its extensive archives. He wasn't supposed to be in a jazzed-up cafeteria, being forced to speak to a bunch of men who'd inherited their wealth from families who _hadn't_ disowned them.

Castiel took a deep breath and did his best to clear his mind. None of that mattered now. What mattered were the words in front of him, and the exhibit several halls down from there, which had been Castiel's life for the past months. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome you to the opening of _Demons of America: Americana's Fact and Folklore_ , the latest of many fine offerings here in the Topeka Museum of Human History. Like all of the displays that you'll find housed within these walls, it was only made possible by the generous donations of our loyal sponsors who make it a priority to maintain our heritage."

He rattled on like that, hoping that he was being far more engaging than he thought he was. Which wouldn't be hard, considering that he thought that he was speaking in a perfect monotone, droning on and on about nothing at all, save for praises of America's wealthy.

It felt like an obscenely long time, but _finally_ he got to the interesting part, about the exhibit itself. "American folklore is like no other in the world. Countless cultures have lent their myths and beliefs to be woven into the very fabric upon which we reside. From the initial Puritans and the fear of witches, to the all-American belief in Big Foot, our stories and legends are an amalgamation of the tales of natives from every country — our own included."

Once he began talking about a subject that he actually cared about, everything else became considerably easier. The _Demons_ exhibit was a good exhibit, an interesting one — it focused mostly on beliefs that had sprung up inside America, made entirely by the minds of the people who had emigrated there — things like the Jersey Devil and Roswell. But he had also thrown in bits and pieces about cultures that had come before the melting pot of the country, that were still influencing people today: the beliefs of the Native tribes, the fairy tales that were ever-present in movies and in novels, the vampire legends that had been twisted and warped far beyond their origins in the Balkans.

It was a far more unfocused exhibit than Castiel normally would have come up with, art and photographs alongside copies of eyewitness accounts of Mothman, next to Jersey Devil action figures. There was a display about thunderbirds next to a small section that scratched the surface of how Disney had twisted and perverted dark fairy tales beyond recognition (he could have easily done an exhibition entirely on that; it was hard to just keep it to illuminated pages of _The Little Mermaid_ that showed the story's real ending, and informative paragraphs about Snow White's dark origin).

In a way, though he thought that the patchwork nature of the exhibit worked quite well. After all, America's folklore was hardly a blanket woven all of one thread — rather, it was a quilt. Bits and pieces brought together to make something that wasn't entirely different, but which was beautiful in its own right.

He liked that metaphor, although comparing things to quilts was probably tired and overused. Which didn't bother Castiel much; he'd never been much for creative writing.

And then, finally, blessedly, it was _done_. He was smiling and thanking the wealthy for coming out tonight, telling them that the exhibit was officially open for their perusal, and they were applauding him. It was polite applause more than genuine enthusiasm for American folklore; he had no illusions about that, but it didn't matter. Now, he just needed to perform the arduous task of standing around in the exhibit, smiling, shaking hands, and answering whatever questions were asked with a brightly faked enthusiasm. Doubtless it wouldn't be fun or exciting; doubtless, he would be absolutely miserable the entire time he was forced to feign interest in socializing like this. But it would only be for two or three hours, and then he could get home, back to Dean, and Castiel liked the thought of _that_ very, very much.

*

It was a quarter to one by the time Castiel came home, the street he lived on dark and deserted. His cheeks hurt from forcibly smiling for over two hours, and he was fairly certain that his knuckles would be bruised in the morning from the tight handshakes that all of Kansas' elite had given him. He had two days' worth of shifts identical to this, save that he would mostly be fraternizing with museumgoers, not the moneybags who were responsible for his paycheck.

Dean was already in bed by the time he came in, though he wasn't asleep. As Castiel padded into the darkened room as quietly as he could, he sat up and switched on their bedside lamp. "How'd it go?"

Castiel glanced at him and had to smile. Dean's hair was already sticking up in uneven tufts, bedhead that had somehow crept upon him in a very short time—Dean wasn't one for going to bed before midnight on a Friday, regardless of where Castiel was. Dean's sheets pooled around him, revealing that he was topless, at the very least. "Comfortable?"

"Very." Dean yawned. "How'd the _soirée_ go?" He drew out _soirée_ as long as he could, as if Castiel couldn't otherwise figure out that he was using it sarcastically.

"I survived." He took off his tie and hung it in the closet, and then ungracefully stripped himself of the rest of his suit. He folded it up and laid it in a corner; he could hang it up tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Dean welcomed him with open arms, pulling him up against his chest as soon as he was beneath their covers. He buried his head in Castiel's hair while Castiel pressed his face into Dean's neck, breathing in his slightly salty, entirely _Dean_ scent. They didn't do this very often, except for after sex, or if one of them had had a particularly bad day, or it was too cold for just their blankets. Dean had too much of a masculinity complex to confess to how much he enjoyed it. But when they did do this… _cuddling_ , for lack of a better (or more accurate) term, it was comfortable and unfailingly enjoyable.

"I missed you," Dean murmured above him. His arms were wrapped securely around Castiel, as Castiel's were around him. "Felt pretty bad for you, too. I mean, at least when you're travelling, I can pretend that you're out doing something fun, you know? Although for you, that's probably sitting around in your motel room and thinking about work. But when you're at one of Zachariah's goddamn begging sessions, I know that all you're doing is sucking rich dick. And that _sucks_."

"Not literally," Castiel replied, his voice muffled against Dean's chest. "Believe me, there was no one there who could tempt me from your side."

"I hope not." Dean kissed his head. "You need to be up early tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately. I won't wake you."

"You can, if you want to." Dean shifted deeper into the bed. "Rather wake up early with you than later and alone."

Castiel wasn't so tired that he didn't smile at that. Dean Winchester could _not_ be described as a romantic, not by any means of the word. But he had his moments. "I might."

"Good." Dean yawned. "G'night, Castiel."

"Good night, Dean." He tightened his arms around Dean's back almost imperceptibly. He was an electric blanket, Castiel thought, except warmer and far more fun to hold. The nights weren't quite so bad yet as to need the extra heat, but neither were they as warm as Kansas in September should have been.

In any case, Dean was comfortable against him. Castiel buried himself against his chest and just breathed. It was good, he thought, to be home.

*

_First there was the woman — probably she had a name; probably she had called herself many things during her long centuries of existence, but he never cared to learn them. She was dark-haired and had wild eyes, and Castiel thought that she was very, very important, but he could not remember why._

_She stroked his cheek and smiled, and for a moment he felt fear. She sensed that and shook her head. Her eyes were deadly, but there was an edge of amusement to them. "I'm not so far gone, angel, that I would go back on my word."_

_He wondered if she was lying — didn't think she was — but then the world went black, and he was in a different place—_

_"There is a way out," said a sneering, hulking man that he knew wasn't human. "A door that opens once, with the pricking of a living human's thumb. But it's only for two, and I warn you, little bird, I will be one of them."_

_Castiel nodded, calm although he couldn't say why. "Dean can be taken out? Unharmed?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I'll do whatever needs to be done, then."_

_And then the scene changed, and he was running (floating?) through the forest, something behind him that was large and snarling, and oh, he needed to get away_

"Castiel! Wake up!"

Castiel opened his eyes, shivering and feeling like he was entirely boneless. He was curled away from Dean, staring at an empty wall, and he could feel his heart beating frantically in his chest. He blinked, and for a moment he was back in the woods, alone except for the huge _thing_ that had been chasing him.

Once he was awake, Dean had switched from shaking him to gently rubbing his back in small, light circles. "Hey, Castiel. You okay?"

He rolled over, somewhat reluctant to give up the comforting touch. Dean was lying on his side, perched up on his elbow. His concern was evident on his face, even in the dimness of the room. "I. Yes, I think I am. I'm sorry for waking you up."

Dean shook his head. "Don't be. Man, you really scared me. You were… you were shaking, and making these _noises_ … I thought you were possessed or something." He laughed, although it was very clearly forced. "What was it?"

"The same thing as last time. Or at least, the same place. There was a woman…" he described what he could to Dean, although the details of it had already begun to escape him. The forest stayed, though, as clear and unforgettable as his childhood home.

When he'd finished, Dean looked even more worried. "You sure that you're doing okay? I mean, I know nightmares and stuff are normal, and I know you've been stressed, but you don't get them _that_ often. And recurring ones _suck_."

"This is only the third time that it's happened." Castiel lay down, facing away from Dean. He was mildly annoyed with himself. He disliked showing weakness, which was probably what came from having a series of older brothers who were perfectly willing to exploit any flaw you showed. "Don't worry."

"If you say so." He _was_ worrying, that much was evident from his voice. Castiel hadn't really expected otherwise. "Wake me up if you have another, okay? If I'm not already up."

"I will." He reached behind himself and squeezed Dean's hand. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

He could hear Dean settling back down among the pillows and blankets. "I mean it, Cas."

"I know." He closed his eyes, trying to drive away the image of the unknown woman, but sleep didn't come easily, and he stayed awake for a long time after.

*

The next day at work was… not Castiel's most pleasant day on the job. He hadn't expected it to be, not with the way that he had slept through his alarm and had needed an apologetic Dean to shake him awake. Not with the traffic, which almost made him late, and definitely not with Zachariah greeting him as soon as he hung his jacket up in his office, and demanding that he get upstairs to the exhibit.

There was a large number of people milling around Castiel as he sat at the table that had generously been provided, with a descriptor card set up in front of him. That was good for the museum, he knew. Even for a Saturday it was busy, and it wouldn't be arrogance to say that it was primarily because of his display. And it was a good mixture of people, too—senior citizens and under-fives alike, with the majority of the guests being somewhere in-between. Again, he knew that was good for the museum. There was something for everyone here.

But for himself? It was terrible. He had to sit in the hard plastic chair smiling at everyone who gave him a curious look. He had to tolerate young children coming up to him and just _staring_ in that entirely disconcerting manner that children had.

Some people had actual questions, about the places he had been and what had gone into the making of the exhibit. Those he answered as best he could—and, indeed, he answered them quite well. When asked about the display in the middle on how fairy stories and cultural mythology had been warped by companies like Disney, his answer drew in a crowd of listeners. Apparently, it was quite astonishing for some of them to learn about how the jinn weren't, in many countries, blue smoke that came pouring out of bottles to grant wishes. Or that the little mermaid's original ending hadn't been quite so idyllic.

Inias met him in his office when he managed to slip away to pick at the lunch he'd thrown together that morning. "It's going very well, Castiel. You should feel proud of yourself."

"Thank you." He tossed the core of his apple into the trash can beneath his desk, and it made a dull clang that echoed through the office. "It's a bit overwhelming. I'm not sure how you manage to deal with that, day in and day out."

"The crowds are larger than usual," Inias replied diplomatically, graciously not touching upon Castiel's inability to handle the museum's patrons for a long stretch of time. "It's because of your exhibit, we all know that. You've managed to draw in more people than usual, even for a Saturday."

"I suppose that I need to get back to them." He stood up, cracking his back. He had another five hours of sitting in front of him; by the end of the day, he'd be too stiff even for Dean to take care of. There was a headache, too, pounding a low, steady beat behind his brows. It had been there since the morning. "Thank you, Inias."

Inias just nodded, trailing after him as he began the climb back upstairs to where his office was. "Are you well, Castiel? You look a bit… pale."

"Do I?" He frowned. The headache was still there, certainly not getting any better, and he _had_ slept poorly, but… "I don't feel that bad."

"In any case, take care." Inias paused at the top of the staircase; Castiel knew that he had his own obligations to deal with, and that he had probably shunted them aside just to talk to him. It was flattering, really. "It wouldn't do for you to take sick in the middle of the exhibit."

"It wouldn't." He sighed. It suddenly seemed like a very long time until he could escape the rush of the museum and get back to where Dean waited at home. "Goodbye, Inias."

"Goodbye, Castiel." They parted ways, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before Castiel was back at his table, smiling again, and ready to handle whatever mundane questions the tourists proposed to him.

*

Castiel didn't dream that night, too exhausted from all of Dean's ministrations (and the _hands_ on him — they were incredible, amazing; Castiel was not a romantic man, but he was fairly certain that he could write odes to Dean and his fantastic fingers). He woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and ready to deal with the museum on a day when it wasn't usually open. His head was clear, whatever ache he'd come home with gone.

At 2:00, he passed out.

It was entirely unexpected and a bit humiliating as well. He had just been sitting at the table, waiting for someone to come over and ask him where he had picked up that genuine cast of a Bigfoot print, when his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped over.

_The blue eyes shone out at him from the darkness, the only light inside the cave. From somewhere else, Castiel recognized the tangled brown hair of the woman from his previous vision. She was kneeling in front of him, very close, and her small but calloused hands were rough against his cheek. They slid down onto his neck, pressing hard against his jugular, and he felt something inside of him stir—_

_And then he was running, faster and faster through the woods, with a giant dog behind him (but hadn't that happened before; this wasn't in order; this wasn't_ right _)_

_"You sure about this, Castiel?" Doubtful green eyes watched him over the firelight. "If it can only be opened once, and it's for two people, and the vamp's demanding right-of-way…"_

_"I'll stay here." He stretched out, staring up at the horned moon in the sky. It hadn't changed since he had gotten there, as if all of the time was just a single night that would eventually be unfrozen and move on to day. "It's my penance, not yours."_

"Hey! Hey, mister, wake up!" A hand on his shoulder was roughing him, and he blinked groggily automatically shaking off the foreign touch. "Mister, you okay?"

Castiel squinted, trying to make things clear. A woman was standing in front of him, a child with wide, frightened eyes at her feet. "I—yes. I apologize, I'm not sure what happened there." He stood up, but the world spun around him, and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep himself from collapsing into a heap. He tried for a rueful smile. "Perhaps I should go to the infirmary."

The woman nodded, stepping back. "Do you want me to walk you there? I mean, no offense, but you look kind of like you might collapse again."

He shook his head, even though that just made him dizzy and really didn't help the situation much. He loathed showing weakness in front of strangers. "Thank you very much for your offer, though. I think I'll be able to make it."

Castiel did. By the time that he was in the small medical area, his head had even stopped spinning, and he felt considerably better.

Raphael was on duty as the nurse that day, a stern-faced man who knew of most of the museum's going-ons, and who Castiel suspected had some influence over Zachariah. He examined Castiel quickly and efficiently, bordering on brusqueness. Castiel rather liked that; it had none of his brothers' condescending nature to it, but it also wasn't too touchy-feely.

"Have you been under stress recently?"

Castiel nodded.

"I expected so. You seem fine in all other regards, so I'm going to conclude that that was what caused you to collapse. I recommend going home now, to rest. In the future, consider taking a vacation. It wouldn't do to have you collapsing in public again."

Which was true enough. He thanked Raphael politely, and then slipped back to the table in the exhibit, ready to take on the next three hours. He knew that Zachariah wouldn't let him off easily unless he was dead (and probably not even then).

By the time that he got home, he was exhausted. Dean looked at him with concerned eyes, but he brushed him off as gently as he could. "I'm fine. Just tired. I wish I'd gotten a weekend."

Dean rubbed his shoulders as he leaned against their kitchen counter, watching the sun set over their tiny backyard. "Call in sick, Cas. You don't look up for going in tomorrow."

"I don't feel up to it." He sighed and slid away from Dean. "Zachariah expects it, though."

"Screw him. Cas, he's your boss, not Darth Vader. He's not going to start strangling you if you say something he doesn't want to hear."

Castiel shook his head. "I'll go in, Dean. It's fine. I think I'll go to bed now, though. I'm tired."

He walked away from Dean, feeling the weight of his partner's concerned eyes on his back. It made him feel guilty, to walk away like that when Dean was just trying to do the right thing, but Castiel knew that he didn't have much choice. Zachariah demanded obedience, or else there would be consequences. He knew that well.

*

The next night, Castiel was in a swamp, and there were things in the muddy water that were trying to pull him down. Dean was there, though, and he pulled him out. When Castiel woke up, heart not pounding _quite_ as quickly as before (he'd had Dean's firm hand grasping his and holding him steady; it was hard to be entirely afraid with that to sustain him) but he was overcome with a decisive sense of self-loathing. He felt _weak_ , as if he should have prevent what had happened in the dream. It was completely foolish, because Castiel was hardly a lucid dreamer, and it wasn't _his_ fault that he hadn't been able to free himself from the dark creatures that had wrapped themselves around his ankles and tried to tug him down. But he still felt as if it was something that he ought to have been able to avoid.

On Tuesday night, after a day of work that was spent mostly catching up with communications in his office, blissfully far away from the crowded exhibits above, he dreamed that he was flying. It was a good dream, at first: the wind was in his hair, the air against his face was cool, and overall there was that sense of _freedom_ , of not being tied down by gravity, let alone the regular obligations of everyday life.

But then he looked down, and he saw that he was just barely coasting above the spindly, leafless trees of the dark forest, and Castiel fell and hit the ground hard.

The scream that ripped from Castiel's throat was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Castiel! Christ, Cas, just breathe!" He was conscious of arms — Dean's arms, he knew — on him; of how his throat felt, like it did after he'd been running on a cold day — like he'd swallowed a knife along the way, like there was a blade slicing and splitting his windpipe. He was sweating like he'd run a marathon too, and he was _afraid_.

He _loathed_ that. He wasn't supposed to be afraid; he'd grown up in a house with so many older brothers that were constantly competing with each other; to show fear among them was to mark yourself as a weakling. Logically, he knew that fear was a perfectly human response to a nightmare. Emotionally, he was furious with himself for the way that he was trembling, for how his stomach was churning, and for how he still felt a little like he was falling.

"Cas," Dean said again, and it was easier to pay attention to this time, because Dean didn't sound scared. "This isn't okay. At all."

Castiel rolled over reluctantly, propping himself up on one elbow to better see Dean. His throat felt thick, and it was an effort to force himself to admit to Dean, "I know."

Dean reached up and gently took Castiel's chin in his hand, and made it so that Castiel had no choice but to look straight at him. "Cas, you gotta go see someone about this. Please. I'll go with you if you want, but man, you can't keep doing this. I'd wake up every night for you, you know that, but I can't stand to see you hurting like this, man. I _can't_."

Castiel let himself fall back onto his sweat-soaked pillows, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The world around him felt unreal, like he was living in a painting and everything about his life was just a bunch of pigments splashed on a sadistic artist's canvas. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from it all. He felt like everything was faked, including Dean's love for him. "I'll think about it."

Dean sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Please."

"I said I'll think about it, Dean, and I will." He curled his fingers into a fist and dug the nails into his palms, hard and deep enough that he was certain they would leave a mark. He could feel Dean hovering behind him, but then he just sighed again and lay back down on the bed. A moment later his hand was gently rubbing Castiel's back, and Castiel closed his eye and leaned into it. _Of course it was real_. How could it not be?

*

In the end, Castiel made the appointment mostly just to appease Dean. He cared for him too much to see his worried eyes every day, but he was well aware that they wouldn't go away until he did something specifically to stop them.

The psychiatrist was a woman with kind eyes who let Castiel call her by her first name of Rachel. She listened to him patiently while he described the dreams, and the few vivid hallucinations that he'd had while awake. She asked questions: had he been under stress lately? In his professional life or his home life? As a child, was he a particularly vivid dreamer?

Castiel answered them all as best he could. Yes, there had been some work-related stress recently. He was doing well as far as his personal life was concerned. No, he couldn't recall any particular incidents from his childhood.

"Did it help?" Dean asked as soon as he got in the door. It was shortly past their regular dinnertime; Castiel had left work early for the appointment. It smelled heavenly inside the house, like garlic and some sort of sauce. "I made pork chops," Dean added quickly. "Just fried something up. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Why would I mind?" He leaned in and kissed Dean. When they pulled back, he shrugged off his coat and sat down in the chair, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know if it helped. She asked me basic questions, nothing out of the ordinary – about stress, if I'd experienced anything traumatic, what my life with you was like. There were no Earth-shattering revelations, and I didn't suddenly realize that all of my issues stem from my father not loving me enough as a child."

"So it didn't do anything?" Lines of worry creased Dean's face. "Cas, this is serious—"

"I know it is. I wouldn't say it was a wonderful experience, but it wasn't entirely useless. She gave me a prescription, which should be in tomorrow, and I made a follow-up appointment for next month." He loathed the idea of having to take medicine – his mother had been an addict, and her father before. It ran in his family, and it was something that he wasn't particularly keen on experiencing. But it was what Rachel had suggested, and he was reluctantly taking her advice.

"That's good, then." Neither Dean's tone nor his expression matched his words. "Do you think it'll help with the dreams?"

"I don't know. I hope so." He sighed, staring out the kitchen window at the cloudy evening. For a moment he thought that he could see a horned moon. A shiver ran up his back. But then the skies were plain grey again, and he was in his house with Dean, and that was all.

*

The pills didn't help, and Castiel stopped taking them after a week. Dean watched him pour them down the toilet with a frown, but knew about Castiel's family, and so he held his protests.

"You could try seeing another one," he said quietly as Castiel walked out past him. "She's not the only doctor out there."

Castiel shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with his hands. A small but steady headache had mobilized behind his brow; it had begun when he had first taken the medicine. He didn't think it was going to go away. "I don't want to, Dean. I – I don't think it would help, and you know that my insurance is terrible. I don't want to be drugged again."

Dean nodded and didn't push the point, but when Castiel woke up in the middle of the night sweaty and panting, and Dean's arm snaked silently over his chest, Castiel knew what he was thinking.

*

When November came, Dean asked Castiel if he wanted to stay home. Castiel asked Dean if he'd lost his senses.

"You have to see Sam," he said firmly. "You have to meet Jess. You can't put that off, Dean."

They were sitting on the couch together, Castiel doing his nightly crossword puzzle and Dean watching a football game, one hand holding a beer and the other resting on Castiel's hip. It was a Monday night, and Thanksgiving was just over three weeks away.

"I don't _want_ to put it off. But man, if you don't feel like it…" he paused, fingers tracing small circles on Castiel's hip. Castiel waited patiently, his pen hovering above the newspaper. "I don't want to make things worse," he said finally. "Look, I want to see Sam more than you can know. I want to meet this girl and make sure that Sammy's not making a mistake, you know that. But if it's gonna hurt you to travel, I don't want to do that. Capice?"

He would choose Castiel's wellbeing over seeing Sam, that was what he was saying. That meant more to Castiel than any gift Dean could have given him, and on a whim Castiel dropped the newspaper and put his hands over Dean's. For a moment the world flickered a bit around the edges, like a frame of smoke surrounded his frame of view. But Castiel curled his fingers over Dean's, and then everything came back into clarity. "I understand. But I want to go, Dean. I'm going to dream no matter where we are. A change of scenery is more like to do me good than harm."

"Are you sure?"

Castiel craned his neck up and kissed Dean lightly. "I'm sure."

Dean nodded. There was relief on his face, and Castiel didn't begrudge him that. "I'll email Sam tonight, then. Let him lay the sheets down in the guest bed."

"Good." Castiel leaned back into Dean, relishing his warm, solid body. The world around him held firm, and that was good.

*

Three weeks, two days before Thanksgiving, and one grueling plane ride later, he and Dean were standing in the airport in California. Dean looked a bit worn around the edges, his face still sallow from the midflight sickness that had taken him. "Where the hell _is_ he?" he growled, looking agitated. "If he got the time wrong—"

"Dean!"

Dean perked up like a dog hearing the squeak of its favorite toy. "Sam?"

It took half a second for them to find Sam, his height offering him a considerable advantage. He shouldered his way closer to Dean and reached down and embraced his brother immediately, ignoring the vaguely sour smell of him. "God, Dean, it's so good to see you."

A tall blonde woman walked up to them, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She smiled tentatively at Castiel. "Are you… Castiel? Did I pronounce that right?"

"Yes I am, and yes, you did." He reached out and shook her hand. "You must be Jessica."

"Jess, please. It's good to meet you." She had warm hands and a firm, but not punishing, grip. Castiel liked her on the spot.

Sam stepped back from Dean at last, looking a bit self-conscious. "Oh, yeah. Um, Jess, this is Dean and his partner Castiel. Dean, Cas, this is Jess. She's my girlfriend. Roommate."

"I get it." Dean stepped forward, not quite smiling as he sized Jess up. It took a moment before he extended his hand to Jess and said, "Pleased to meet you, Jess."

"And you." She smiled at Dean. His expression grew a fraction warmer.

"It's good to see you, Cas." Sam gave him a quick hug that was easily reciprocated by Castiel. "How've you been feeling?"

"The same, thank you." He was dreaming at least four days a week, the headaches hadn't let up at all (and neither Advil nor Tylenol were having any effect) and he still had those moments of spacing out, times when it felt like he wasn't really living in this world. Or times when things went all… _fuzzy_ around the edges. It was strange, but something told him not to dwell on it, that it wasn't a big deal. He could handle it, just as he'd been handling the dreams. "Should we go and find our bags?

"Of course. C'mon." Sam bounded off like an eager puppy, Dean walked almost as speedily after him, and Castiel and Jess made up the rear. It was warm that day, and Castiel couldn't help but hope that things were looking up.

*

Sam's apartment was small but serviceable, looking out onto a busy Palo Alto street. "It gets noisy at night, sometimes," Sam said as he stood in the doorway of the guest room, "but it's not that bad. You don't really notice it."

Dean bounced down onto the starched white sheets. "Nice place you got here."

"It is." Sam gave him a hesitant smile. "We're proud of it."

There was a pause, and then Dean said quietly, " I'm proud of _you_ , Sam. She… she seems nice. Great, I mean."

Castiel hid a smile and busied himself with emptying out the suitcase. He knew that the brothers were having a moment, and he didn't want to interrupt. He waited with his head more or less in his suitcase until Sam had left, closing the door behind him. "Good talk?"

"Yeah." Dean flopped down on the bed. He didn't say any more than that, but it was enough. The relaxed, content expression on his face said more than enough.

*

Castiel didn't dream that night, and he thought that maybe things were getting better. The next day went well, too – it was spent mostly in either the kitchen or the grocery store down the street; they all took turns between doing cooking duty and picking up whatever ingredients had been forgotten. Things were light and easy between them all; Jess slipped easily into their dynamic. The world around him stayed perfectly clear, and everything was very, very good.

It was at dinner the next day when things went wrong.

One moment, Castiel was walking to the table, laughing with Jessica. The apartment smelled of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie, and Castiel was more calm and relaxed than he had been in months,

A minute later, he had collapsed, and Jess was yelling, and the world around him seemed suddenly very unsubstantial. The only thing that he could think was, _Why now?_ Even though that didn't really make any sense at all.

He could feel a hard floor beneath him, cold through his thin clothes. _Everything_ was cold, all of a sudden. He didn't know when that had happened.

"Castiel?" Dean was leaning over him, his face paler than Cas had ever seen. He had seen many emotions come and go over Dean in their years together, but he'd never seen this: worry, pure and unadulterated, thinly covering panic. "Stay still, man. Just… don't move. Sam's calling an ambulance now."

He blinked. _Move_? He didn't think he could move, not when the world was spinning out of control, hurtling through a void somewhere. Not when Dean and Sam were worlds away.

"…you with me? Jesus, man, hang on." Dean's hand was clutching his. His calloused fingers wrapped around Castiel's softer ones, and they were warm when everything else had frozen over. Even though Castiel knew that it was, like all of this, fleeting, he didn't care. He forced himself to squeeze back.

"Good. That's it, that's real good. Keep holdin' on, Cas, okay?" His other hand slid under Castiel's head, cradling it off the floor. It was gentle, and tender, and it hurt Castiel more than anything else, because that wasn't Dean. Dean was a good man, a great man, and there was very little in the worlds that Castiel wouldn't do for him. But Dean — Dean would never treat him like this. It wasn't cruel of him, or wrong, or bad — he just _wouldn't_. Dean Winchester was not a man prone to sweet, kind gestures, least of all ones directed at Castiel himself.

Castiel blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the world was almost gone. The edges of the dining room were blurry, and the middle of it was fading fast. The table above him was no longer recognizable as such, and even the hard wooden floor — for a moment, it looked like stone. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he said, because in a moment this version of Dean, who didn't carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and who was happy with his life, would stop existing. As it was, he didn't really even exist _now_ , much as Castiel wished otherwise. But he'd be well and truly gone in a moment.

"Don't say that." Dean gripped Castiel's hand with a fierceness that was sharply contrasted by how he was supporting his head. "Damn it, Cas, just hang on. You're gonna be all right."

"I doubt that." He glanced up at Dean one last time, wanting a final memory of him as his lover, but it was already too late. His features were a blurred mess, a wet portrait that the artist had smeared over. "Dean, I—"

*

_He didn't know how long it had been since Dean and the vampire had escaped. It had been too long; of that, Castiel was certain. Any time spent here was too much._

_His breath was coming out in harsh pants as he ran desperately through the forest. The tips of his fingers were tender and sore from having been scraped against trees time and time again, as he guided himself more with his hands then his eyes. Decaying leaves made the ground slippery, and roots were known to jut up in places where they really had no business being. His wings were still tender from the run-in with the manticore, and Castiel knew that he couldn't fly, nor could he outrun the werewolf behind him for much longer. There was only one option left._

_Castiel stopped so suddenly that he almost fell over his own feet. He whirled around, crouching into a fighting position. He could hear the beast coming, slobbering and snarling as it slammed its way through branches that he'd needed to dodge._

_And then he saw it, barreling out from the path that he had just come down. Its eyes were eerily green, glowing with that feral edge that seemed to touch most of the pupils in Purgatory, and its mouth was pulled back in a growl. It spied him, leaped—_

_He was prepared for it. As soon as he felt its gigantic paws slam into his shoulders, he summoned up what little of his Grace remained and_ pushed _back. They fell to the grown in a tangle of coat and fur, but Castiel managed to stay on top of the wolf. Adrenaline was pounding through him, motivating his body as much as his angelic power was, and nothing else mattered but what he was doing now._

 _The wolf tried to throw him, thrashing from side to side. The claws of its left front paw sank into his side, and Castiel_ snarled _, and slammed it back down onto the carpet of rotting grasses and leaves. Not giving it time to react, he wrapped his arms around its neck, and twisted. He could feel the snap of bone against him, and he smiled grimly. It would heal eventually; things did not die in Purgatory. But it wouldn't be getting up any time soon. He had won._

_Castiel pushed himself up onto his feet, and nearly fell back down. His hand went instantly to his left side, and he uttered a few choice words that he had learned from Dean. They felt strange on his tongue, wrong, but they reminded him of Dean, and sometimes he needed that._

_He knew that he couldn't just stand around and wait for some other vile thing to come out of the bushes, made bold by the scent of his blood. So he began to walk, and then to jog, through the eternal nighttime of Purgatory. There would be a cave, an empty den, a hollow tree soon enough. There were always those little resting spots, places for hunters to recover after they were made prey._

_He got a mile, maybe less, before he started to feel his guts squishing against his fingers. He stumbled, slowed down. A wave of pain clouded his mind, dizzying him._

_Castiel leaned back against a nearby tree, biting down hard on his lip to keep his breath from coming out in overloud pants. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to block out the world around him and let him focus on turning the pain into something more easily ignored. He stayed very still and very quiet, trying to listen for any other hunters coming up on him, who'd be hoping to get an easy kill from his already weakened state._

_It was pointless in the end, though. He didn't hear her approach at all, and by the time that he'd opened his eyes and seen her standing there, watching him, it would have probably been too late for him to react, if death was what she'd had in mind._

_He opened his eyes, and he vaguely recognized the face that loomed above him. He had given her to Crowley… well, he couldn't remember how long ago it had been. Time was strange in Purgatory. A lifetime separated him from when he had appeared in Crowley's workshop following the demon's fake execution, his hand wrapped firmly around the tanned forearm of a jinn. She had struggled then, sworn at him—first in English, then Arabic, then a language that hadn't been heard on Earth for several centuries, at least._

_Now, though, she wasn't yelling or protesting. Instead, her blue eyes were glowing dimly in the gloom of Purgatory, and she looked hungry._

_Castiel pushed himself into a standing position against the tree, well aware of how damningly pathetic he looked. He kept one hand over the wound where the werewolf had clawed him open. He could feel his guts spilling wetly out against his palm. "Stay back."_

_She laughed. "Or what, angel? You'll bleed all over me?"_

_Castiel straightened, no longer relying on the press of slimy bark against his back to keep him upright. He called up enough of his fast-dwindling Grace to temporarily staunch the flow of blood, and allow his hand to drop to his side. With almost all of the strength that he had, he forced his wings away from the captivity of his vessel and let them flash outwards. They were too weak to fly with, but they could still make a half-impressive show of strength. "I could destroy you if I wanted to."_

_"You got me killed once," she said sharply. She sneered, and the tattoos on her face seemed to darken. "Don't think I'd let it happen again."_

_He stepped forward, letting his wings flare out again. "Do you want to risk that?"_

_Then, a flash of fear in her electric-blue eyes. Once that wouldn't have affected Castiel; at the most, he would have acknowledged it as a sign that he was doing his job correctly._

_Now, though, it sent a savage pleasure shooting through him; he wanted—_

_He_ wanted _her to hurt. He wanted her to fear him as an angel, one of God's warriors, almost as much as he had wanted to rip that werewolf's head from its body._

_Castiel's wings slipped back into his vessel without his command. The front that he had put on fell away, and he was distinctly aware of what he must look like right then: a pathetic excuse for an angel trying to find redemption by suffering in this prison for monsters — except, there was one factor that he hadn't accounted for that he really should have, given all the things that he and Dean had seen in this place:_

_Purgatory didn't cleanse you of your evil. Purgatory found whatever small seeds of corruption lay dormant inside of you, and it brought them forth and nourished them. It tangled the roots of badness up with your bones and your muscles, and it made it so that they could never be separated._

_Purgatory made you into a monster, and Castiel, in all of his arrogance —_ _the same cursed hubris that he had been trying to cleanse himself of — thought that he would be strong enough to avoid it. And he was utterly and completely wrong; he would fall farther than he had ever fallen before, and he would become a monster no different from the werewolf, the jinn, or the leviathans that he had let loose._

_"Still going to slay me?" the jinn taunted. The small flash of fear was gone, arrogance in its place, as though it never existed at all. "Think you can get me killed again? Fucking angel — don't you know that you can't kill what's already dead?"_

_"I could hurt you very badly. Go, right now, and I won't."_

_Instead, she stepped closer. Castiel stayed in place, glaring down at her. He would have shown his wings again, but that had already proven ineffective, and he really didn't have the strength. Nodding at the wound that had begun to sluggishly bleed again, she said, "You smell good. Delicious, I'd say."_

_"Do you think I'll just stand here and consent for you to feast on my flesh?"_

_She grinned, looking more like a feral predator than a jinn. "Demons aren't the only ones who can cut deals."_

_Castiel's fingers dug into the slimy bark of the tree closest to him; he could feel it flake off and stick underneath his fingernails. His legs were threatening to fail him again, and he knew that he needed to finish up with the jinn quickly if he didn't want to humiliate himself further. "You're not a sphinx. Riddles don't become you."_

_She rolled her eyes, and for a moment he was reminded of the demon Meg. Briefly he wondered what had become of her — if Crowley had gotten her, or if she had beaten him. But that was neither here nor there; Meg was the past, from a world he would never return to. "I've got a proposition for you, angel. I think you're gonna like it."_

_"A deal with a monster? How foolish do you think I am?"_

_The tattoos on her face swirled and blurred as she stepped closer. "We keep our word, the jinn. Never doubt that."_

_"I'm certain that the innocents you slay value your integrity as you bleed them dry."_

_"Mock us if you will. It's true." She spat on the ground. "We were born of pure fire, angel. Forged by the same Maker as you, if you hadn't forgotten. And there's honor in fire."_

_"It burns all that touches it. Hardly honorable."_

_"You're not nearly as dense as you're acting. You know full well that fire can help as much as it can harm. And little angel, I can_ help _you. And if you get burnt along the way… well, it's all one and the same." She laughed and spat on the ground again. "Nothing dies in the land of the dead. You'll heal eventually."_

_It was true. He'd torn the heads from creatures and watched their fingers flail around, searching for the missing parts, and he very strongly believed that if he had stayed around to watch, he would have eventually seen muscle and bone knit back together, and blood coming from where there was no blood before. The reapers didn't care to pick up souls a second time. "What are you proposing?"_

_"I'm hungry, angel, and you… you smell better than most of the corpses here. And you're not a monster yet — you don't want to be one."_

_She stepped forward, closing in on him until he could smell her over Purgatory's endless stench of rotting leaves and stagnant water. Her scent was of fire and sand, of some old spice that he didn't care to identify. The jinn hadn't been dead long enough to completely lose herself to the land. "Give me yourself. Your blood, your flesh — whatever I crave. And in exchange, I'll craft you up a pretty little world to live in while I have my feast."_

_"You expect me to take you up on_ that _?" He straightened, the pain in his side flaring up again. He couldn't suffer the indignity looking any weaker than he already did, though. "Get out, unless you want to be destroyed."_

 _She laughed. "I can give you your own little place where all your brothers up in Heave bow down to your glory. Would you like that?" And she laughed, and said, "No, that's not what you want. I can make_ him _love you, little angel."_

_Castiel didn't ask her who she meant. He already knew. "You think that's what I want?"_

_"I'm_ certain _it's what you want. The things you've done for him, and for his brother? You'd have to be the most altruistic being this side of the universe, if it wasn't love that motivated you… and I think we both know that angels aren't nearly as benevolent and kind as the human masses seem to think."_

_He held her gaze, not denying it. He loved Dean, and he had for a very long time. Dean was who he looked to when God was gone; Dean was who he protected, more than he protected the Earth itself. Were he an angel, he'd be ashamed of himself — but he wasn't, not really. He was one in name, but he certainly didn't serve Heaven anymore. "I'm not a human. I can't be swayed so easily."_

_"You're a human with wings, Castiel, and one that's hunted by every damned creature in this place. And let me tell you, most of them aren't going to be as sweet as me. Most will wait until you're tired and bleeding from some other fight, and then… then they'll get you. Devour you, torture you, make you scream and cry and beg… but if you want that, go for it. You and your little pride will be better off for it, I suppose. All your memories of that human, the one who got out—they'll sustain you for a little while. You'll forget him eventually, though."_

_Her eyes were mocking, shining with mirth, and she was smiling. Her teeth were pointed and inhuman, and she looked as wild as he remembered the first jinn being. They'd learned to blend in eventually, but in the days of prophets and gods… they had been wild things back then. They still were, in a few old places. "You think I never took a lover in all the centuries gone by? You'd be wrong. There were some; I'm sure I cared for them… but I don't remember them. This place claims you, shapes you, makes you its own. Give it a few months, and you'll forget his name. A few more, and his face will be gone. In a year, all that'll be left of your precious little Dean is the idea that something_ might _be missing — but even then, you won't be sure."_

_The jinn's tattoos were glowing, Castiel noted apathetically. She was readying what remained of her powers, as though he'd already said yes. "If you let me take you, you'll never forget him. You'll live it out in a pretty world, and it'll seem like a lifetime to you. And when you're all drained of blood, I'll leave you alone until your body repairs itself, and then I'll give you a whole new life with him. And so it goes, forever and ever. The closest to Heaven that you'll ever get."_

_Castiel looked up at the sky, black as tar and with an occasional star pinpricking its surface, no constellations discernible. The moon above glowed, bringing the most light that was ever shed onto this forsaken place. This was by far the loneliest of the realms, the one with most fury and hatred, and absolutely no hope — because even in Hell, the sinners who had yet to be broken prayed to their god, and every once in a thousand lifetimes, someone was lifted up and given redemption._

_There were ways to get out of here, ways that were few in number and impossible to use without a companion by your side. But even so, getting out only changed_ where _you were. It didn't change_ who _you were, or that you were still damned, unforgiven._

_He could stay here forever and become a monster as base and vile as the leviathans. He could wander around, hoping that Dean made good on his promise, and also hoping that he could keep enough of his self away from whatever it was that let this place twist and turn its creatures into things more wretched than demons. He might even escape eventually, and still have to face how terribly he had acted, how many people he had hurt._

_Castiel wished that he wasn't a coward, that he could trust himself to keep being_ himself _no matter how long he called Purgatory his home. He wished that he were strong enough, if he ever went back to Earth or Heaven, to somehow repent and make all of his sins right._

 _But he didn't trust himself to do either of those things — because after all, wasn't it that_ hubris _that had made him free the Leviathans in the first place? Wasn't his belief that he was strong enough to act on his own ultimately what failed him?_

_He looked the jinn straight in her electric blue eyes. "Make it so that I can't tell it's a fantasy. Ever."_

_She laughed and held out her tattooed hand. He took it, sealing the deal as effectively as a kiss with a demon. "I'll do my best, angel. No promises, but I'll do my best."_

_*_

Castiel's eyes opened to a dimly lit room.

It wasn't the bedroom that he had been in once upon a time; it was much smaller than that, and much darker. It wasn't his. He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there, or why he could feel several invasive objects pricking into his body.

But he did know _who_ he was: Castiel, an angel of the Lord who had fallen and climbed back up multiple times. He wasn't a museum curator in Topeka, Kansas. He didn't live in a city called Lawrence, and he certainly wasn't in a relationship with Dean Winchester.

He closed his eyes as shame burned on his cheeks. For what, he wasn't entirely sure — thinking that he deserved Dean Winchester as a lover, maybe; thinking that Dean ought to choose his health over being with his brother; or maybe for being so weak in the first place that he had given himself over to the jinn. Most likely, it was a combination of both those things, and a hundred other actions he had foolishly taken over the course of his existence.

"Castiel?" A hand, larger than Dean's had been, gently touched him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes obediently.

Sam Winchester loomed over him. He looked older than when Castiel had last seen him, which made sense. He thought that perhaps the jinn's world had taken place at some point in the Winchester's past. Even if it hadn't, he didn't know how much time had passed in Purgatory.

Sam smiled when he opened his eyes, looking genuinely happy. He probably wouldn't have, Castiel thought, if he'd known what Castiel had done after Dean had escaped. "How do you feel? It's awesome to have you back."

Castiel licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. The gesture didn't escape Sam; he stood up from the chair he had been sitting in, reaching over to steady himself against the wall nearest to Castiel's head. "Here, I'll go get you something to drink. You've been out for almost five days; you're gonna need it."

Then he was gone. Castiel took advantage of the room's sudden emptiness to brace his palms against the hard mattress he was lying on, and push himself up into a sitting position. Doing so took far more effort than it should have, and by the time he was leaning against the headboard, he was thoroughly exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, just long enough to catch his breath.

What had happened? He remembered the world he had emerged from very well, and the deal that he had cut with the creature in Purgatory to get it. But what had happened between his fantasy falling apart and now… it was shattered in his mind, fragments that alternated between burningly bright light and the overwhelming shadow of Purgatory.

He remembered the jinn's cave very faintly, the sound of voices (the Winchesters, he thought, though it was hard to be sure) and footsteps. He thought maybe someone had picked him up at one point, easily as though he was weightless. He hadn't been very aware, though.

Sam returned with a glass of water just as he was taking stock of his surroundings. It was a small, square room. His bed was pushed parallel against one wall, its headboard tucked into the corner of the wall with the only window. It wasn't very large, and was sparsely furnished — there was his bed, the chair that Sam had been sitting in, and a small nightstand next to his bed with nothing on top of it.

And the pricking that he had felt before, that had come from several medical devices set up nearby. An IV and a bag of blood. He didn't know where they had come from, and he thought that he should probably find out, once he got the more pressing matters out of the way.

Sam must have noticed him looking around, because he said, "We're in a place right on the outskirts of Vermont. Legally, I think. Inias got it for us." He grimaced, sitting back down in the chair. "We're kinda broke right now."

"Inias?" That couldn't be. His brother, although living in the hallucination he had had, was dead. All of them were.

"Drink this." Sam handed him the cup. "Yeah, Inias. He hooked up with me just before Dean and that vampire guy busted out, and he's been here since. I'm kind of surprised that he isn't here right now, to be honest. He's probably in Heaven; he's been working with Joshua — well, he'll tell you. Most of it doesn't make sense to me, anyway."

Castiel lifted the cup to his lips and took a drink, hating the way that his hand shook, spilling droplets of water over the sheets that he was lying in. Sam, ever perceptive, reached out and patiently covered Castiel's hand with his own, ensuring that the drink wouldn't spill. That he needed help made Castiel feel worse, but all the same, he said, "Thank you, Sam. I… I find myself weakened, after being away for so long."

Sam nodded, his brown eyes sympathetic. "When Dean got out, he was… well, not as bad as you, but not great. He was really tired, and he just seemed kind of… I don't know. Not okay."

"I can imagine." With Sam's help, he set the glass down on the nightstand. The water made him feel nominally better, and Castiel knew that he couldn't keep dancing around the elephant in the room. "How did you get me out?"

"With a lot of help," Sam said simply. It wasn't really an answer at all, though, and Castiel was about to insist on the details when he asked, "Are you… can you heal yourself? Are you still an angel?"

Castiel leaned back against the headboard and took a deep breath, not answering immediately. Sam would wait, he knew. He was good like that.

Closing his eyes and evening his breath, he reached inside himself. It wasn't a meditative state, not exactly; he didn't have time to do it properly, but it was close. He focused in on his body, on the sensations that he was feeling. His head was sore, and almost every muscle in him _ached_. He was tired, cold and sweaty, and he was fairly certain that his muscles would fail him if he tried to walk. His throat was scratchy, despite the water.

But the more he pressed, the harder he concentrated… there was something there, curled up deep inside his chest. A spark. It wasn't much, but it filled Castiel with dizzying relief.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sam. "No, I can't heal myself. But I am still in possession of some Grace. I'm a poor excuse for an angel at the moment, but given time, I expect most of my strength to be recovered."

Sam nodded, leaning back in his chair. He gave Castiel a tentative smile. "That's good. That's awesome, Cas. We were really worried about you."

The concern was touching, in a way. More than he deserved. But it would be foolish to dwell on that; there were things he needed to be far more concerned about, things that he ought to have asked about already. "Where is Dean now? He's recovered from Purgatory?"

"Dean's sleeping. I didn't wake him up; it's the first time he's been out since you came back. And yeah, he's gotten a lot better. It's been almost four months since he came back, and almost eight since you two went in."

So Dean had been by his side for four months. It was far too long, but it could also have been much worse. Castiel counted himself lucky that Dean had gotten out before Purgatory had been able to forge him into some sort of monster. "And yourself? Crowley didn't capture you, after he imprisoned us?" That had been one of Dean's greatest fears, that the demon king had somehow harmed his brother. Castiel hadn't been able to assuage his concerns, mainly because he was unwilling to lie about how probable it was.

"No. Crowley…" Sam grimaced. "He captured Meg and Kevin. Kevin, we got back — he's with us now, actually; he was the one who translated the spell for getting us into Purgatory. He's sleeping in the other room. We don't really know what happened to Meg, but Kevin doesn't think she's dead."

That was good. She had saved his life on several occasions, and he _was_ in her debt, even if he no longer harbored personal attachments to her. "You were safe until Dean got back?"

Sam glanced at him with an expression that was either amusement or mild offense. It was decidedly human, and Castiel had never been good with things that were that. "Yeah. I mean, I am a hunter. I… hunted." He shrugged haplessly. "Leviathans, mostly, and some demons. I was looking for Crowley."

"You must have found him eventually, if you freed Kevin."

"That was after Dean had come back." Sam stood up. "I'm going to go and wake him up now, all right? You're probably tired and all, but he'll have my head if he finds out that you woke up and I didn't get him."

Castiel nodded, and he left.

When Dean came back, it was alone. Sam had slipped off somewhere else. Castiel was grateful for that, although he couldn't have said why.

Dean settled into the chair next to his bed. They sat in silence for a moment and looked at each other.

And then Dean smiled. It wasn't hesitant, or worried, or any of that. It was a full-on, genuine grin, and Castiel thought that it had been quite some time since he'd seen that on the face of the actual Dean Winchester. "Cas. Man, I — I didn't think that you were going to make it for a while there."

He tried to smile back, but the expression had always felt foreign on his lips, and now was no exception. "I did. You… you rescued me? Thank you, Dean."

"I told you that I wouldn't leave you there, and I meant it." His face grew serious. "How much did Sam tell you? I mean, I know that you just woke up, and we don't want to push you or anything, but…"

"He didn't say much. Just that Kevin was here, and also that Inias had helped you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. We found Kevin—well, that's a long story, and Kevin should probably be here when we tell it. But anyway, apparently the Word of God wasn't just instructions on how to kill Dick. There were instructions on getting into Purgatory there too, so, well." He shrugged. "We did it. And Inias had this ritual that was supposed to work in any of the worlds out there, a finding spell. Once we were in Purgatory, he did it, and we found you and brought you back."

His face clouded over. "We didn't think you were going to make it at first. Inias thought you were fallen completely, and that that jinn bitch who'd captured you had you almost drained. You were so pale, Cas, Jesus…" he shook his head, passing his hand over his face. "Inias didn't know if the blood would take, either."

Castiel glanced up at the bag of red that was hooked into his arm. "Whose is it?"

"Mine." Dean looked surprised, as if Castiel should have known — which, really, he should have, he thought; were he fully powered, he would have been able to examine the structure of the cells floating into him and determine who they belonged to. "Inias said he couldn't do it, because his Grace would mess with yours or something. And he didn't think that Sam's would work, just 'cause of the demon blood that he's had. So it came down to me and Kevin, and I was the only match."

Castiel nodded. He looked at Dean more closely now, and noticed that, even in the darkness of the room, he looked pale. Too pale. He would have needed to give a considerable amount of blood to replenish what the jinn had taken, he thought. More than he should have. "You didn't need to do that."

"You're always glad to bleed for us, aren’t you? Figured I should return the favor. I mean, I wish that Sam had gotten me cookies and juice, but beggars can't be choosers."

Castiel pretended to know what that meant. "Still, it couldn't have been conducive to your health. Sam told me that Purgatory had hurt you…"

Dean waved that away. "I was tired, sure. It's not that easy, travelling between realms or whatever. But I was okay after a week or two. I'm fine now. What did the jinn show you?"

He started, looking sharply at Dean. The turn in conversation had been so sudden that he wondered if he'd let something slip. Had he been talking in his sleep, calling out to Dean? Had the jinn told him?

But Dean's face displayed nothing of that. Rather, it showed open curiosity.

Castiel thought of what the jinn had given him, his own little world crafted up from his subconscious. He remembered how Dean had been there for him, how he hadn't been so foolish as to ignore all of Dean's suggestions. He remembered the carnal pleasures he and Dean had indulged in, and the feel of Dean's lips on his.

He turned away from Dean, not willing to meet his eyes. "I don't remember. I — maybe I will after I've had more rest. I'm tired," he added. "As I'm sure you understand."

Dean nodded, standing up. "Yeah, I do. Trust me, I do. I'll just… leave you, then." He walked away and then paused in the doorway, his body silhouetted by the light from another room. "I'm glad you're back, Cas."

"Thank you. I'm glad to be back."                                                                

He waited until Dean had pulled the door shut behind him before he lay back down. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling, and thought that on the whole, they were better than the stars and the horned moon of Purgatory.

Castiel didn't know what he was anymore – an angel, in name, but in purpose? He had nothing left. Heaven was gone to him, and the world he had imagined was just that – an imagination. He didn't get Dean's love, because… because that was how things went. That was fair. It wasn't something he deserved, anyway.

But the night was growing late, and Castiel was tired. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe in and out, until he had established a comfortable pattern. In the morning he could figure things out. He could face Dean in the light, and Sam, and maybe he could even admit to them that he had made a deal with a monster. Things weren't ideal, but maybe – _maybe_  Castiel could confess, atone, make himself respectable again. It was possible.

He slept then, and for the first time in a very long time, no nightmares came.

  



End file.
